


The Pureblood Cuckoo

by MaryRoyale



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Pureblood Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryRoyale/pseuds/MaryRoyale
Summary: When Hermione attempts to restore her parent's memories, dark secrets are uncovered and her life will never be the same again.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 323
Kudos: 983





	1. In Which Everything is not as it Appears to Be

**Author's Note:**

> This happened and it would NOT leave me alone. It *haunted* me. So far, this isn't really a kissing story. It's mostly Hermione dealing with her emotions and her family. 
> 
> Auntie_L is lovely and perfect and wonderful (as per usual). My Falcons are also pretty amazing. Huge thanks to Val and Lisa for helping me figure out how get Lucius and Narcissa to argue. (In my head, they never really argue. They're one of those couples that are always on the same page with each other.)

~Chapter One: In Which Things Are Not as They Appear to Be~

There had been so much hope, in the beginning. The idea that it was possible to protect her parents, to save them, had haunted her. Hermione loved her parents. Nightmares about what might happen to them once Voldemort was in power had woken her screaming so many times that her Mum and Dad had begun to watch her with worried frowns. There had been more than one subtle comment about the possibility of therapy.

Unfortunately, her Mum and Dad just hadn’t understood. Admittedly, Hermione hadn’t exactly been as forthcoming as she could have been. She couldn’t risk them yanking her out of Hogwarts. She couldn’t abandon Harry. She had sworn to stand by him, come what may. As the parents of the notorious Mudblood Granger they would have been prominent targets. Everyone talked about how Voldemort was a famous _Legilimens_ , and so were several of his Death Eaters.

Hermione’s theory had been simple. If a _Legilimens_ happened to come across Monica and Wendell Wilkins, they would only have seen what Hermione intended them to see: just a nice Australian couple who loved gardening and were avid fans of the Reds. It wasn’t as though anyone from the Wizarding world knew her family. She was willing to bet that even Harry or Ron would struggle to pick them out of a crowd.

It had taken some delicate maneuvering—Hermione refused to actually _lie_ to her parents, but she was willing to admit to herself that her lies of omission loomed over her, threatening to bury her under them most days. She managed to convince her parents that if they allowed her to do this, it would protect her. Dad had flat-out refused at first. He had insisted that if Hermione were in danger, then he needed to be by her side to protect her.

Reluctantly, her parents agreed to let Hermione cast on them. Hermione had chosen carefully—so very, very carefully. After the war, she would confess everything. All of it. She would tell her parents every single detail of her Hogwarts’ escapades and then beg for their forgiveness.

Once the war was over, travelling to Australia to restore her parents’ memories had been her first priority. She was braced for the biggest fight she’d ever had with her parents. She had prepared herself for recriminations, anger, and tears. She had not prepared herself for _this_.

Elaine Granger had blinked up at her with eyes the color of rich loam and a small furrow had appeared between her slender brows.

“Who are you?”

The question had been curious and slightly confused. Hermione stared at her mother in growing horror, and then turned to Ewan Campbell, the tall, red-headed Mind Healer who had insisted that she call him Blue. 

“Did it not work?” She asked in a small, shaky voice.

“It worked,” Mind Healer Campbell countered. He cast a diagnostic spell and pointed to several glowing runes. “You can see that the memory charm is no longer in place.”

“But…” Hermione paused and turned to stare at her mother who was watching them with that same slightly-confused curiosity.

“Are you a volunteer?” Elaine Granger asked with a hesitant smile that made Hermione’s chest tighten painfully. “I volunteered at our local hospital when I was younger. It’s so important to give back, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me, please,” Hermione muttered before she turned and fled the room before she burst into tears.

The permanent spell damage ward at Adelaide’s magical hospital was lovely. If Hermione had been in a better frame of mind, she would have admired the bright, open space, and the charmed garden for the residents. Instead, she stared blankly at cheerful murals.

“Miss Granger?” Mind Healer Campbell prompted her in a gentle, soothing tone that set Hermione’s teeth on edge. She was in no mood to be soothed.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione admitted finally. She turned to face the Mind Healer with a frown. “You’ve removed the memory charm, but they still don’t know who I am. How can that be?”

“There are several options,” Mind Healer Campbell explained with a sigh. He shook his head. “None of them are pleasant.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Hermione asked.

“Why don’t we go to one of the private consultation rooms,” he suggested.

“What about my parents?” Hermione protested. “We can’t just leave them alone.”

“I have another Healer with them right now,” Mind Healer Campbell replied. “Come along, Miss Granger. Let’s have a chat.”

The small consultation room was decorated in calming blues and greens that only served to irritate Hermione even further. She sat stiffly in one of the ugly plastic chairs that seemed to populate institutions no matter where one was. Ewan Campbell sat across from her quietly for several moments. Finally, he sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“As a Muggleborn in wizarding Britain, any outbursts of accidental magic are dealt with by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” the Mind Healer began. He glanced at Hermione’s impatient face and nodded slightly. “Which you already know. It is possible that this is the result of a botched _Obliviate_.”

“But you don’t think so,” Hermione guessed.

A reluctant smile tilted up the corners of his mouth.

“You aren’t considering a Healing Mastery, are you?” Mind Healer Campbell asked hopefully. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t. As irresponsible as Britain’s Ministry of Magic might be, the Obliviation Squad is responsible for keeping the Statute of Secrecy. They are held to ICW standards, and are required to pass ICW testing on a regular basis.”

“What are the other options,” Hermione asked.

“Most of them involve bleed over and cross-contamination from other spells,” Mind Healer Campbell explained in a carefully neutral voice. He paused and made eye contact with Hermione. His gaze was solemn and probing. “There are several that interact badly with the spells you chose to use on your parents. All of them involve planting false memories.”

Hermione frowned at that. “I don’t understand.”

“The memory charm removes recent memories, and leaves the castee in a suggestive state. The caster can then encourage them to remember something more mundane than whatever actually occurred. When the Obliviation Squad casts the memory charm, they aren’t actually planting false memories,” Healer Campbell explained carefully.

“I read articles about the memory charm in several journals before I…,” Hermione paused and flushed. Healer Campbell nodded.

“Exactly. You understand how it works. The human mind shies away from the uncomfortable and the unsettling. Given the option, our brains will fill in information with something more familiar, more comforting.” Healer Campbell waved a hand in the air.

“Who would plant memories in the minds of a couple of Muggle dentists?” Hermione asked plaintively. It didn’t make any sense. None of this made any sense at all.

“Someone looking to hide a magical child among Muggles,” Healer Campbell suggested quietly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hermione winced at the shrillness of her voice.

“You know what it means,” Healer Campbell countered. “There had to be a reason to plant memories in your parent’s minds. The removal of those memories removes all trace of their only child. The only conclusion is that you are _not_ the daughter of Elaine and Robert Granger.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione sputtered helplessly. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Are you?” Healer Campbell asked her in a gentle voice.

“Of course I am,” Hermione snapped. Then she paused and stared at Healer Campbell with wide eyes. “Who else could I be?” She asked in a small voice.

“There are several heritage spells that are available,” Healer Campbell suggested. “That’s usually considered a private matter, but if you would like us to conduct an official test, we can.” He cleared his throat and averted his eyes. “You should know that the results of an official test are lodged with the Ministry of Magic to prove or disprove inheritance rights.”

“You mean the press would have access,” Hermione guessed bitterly.

“They would,” Healer Campbell agreed. He shrugged helplessly. “It’s completely up to you.”

“Let’s do the official test.”

Quickly, Hermione glanced about, wondering who had spoken. She blinked, realizing that _she_ was the one that had said that aloud. Healer Campbell looked equally startled.

“Are you certain?” He asked.

 _Was_ she certain? Hermione couldn’t say. Within the span of a few short hours her entire existence had been turned upside down. Her parents – well, the people who had loved her and raised her – had been permanently spell-damaged and she was now bereft of kith and kin. Sort of. Apparently there were people out there that _were_ family, and not her stiffly formal _grand-mère_ in Gironde. The sudden nebulousness of _who_ she was unsettled her.

“What do I have to do?” She countered with a small frown.

The process was a blur. Hermione couldn’t have told you what she did, afterwards. All she would be able to remember, years later, was sitting in an upholstered chair in Healer Campbell’s office staring at him blankly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The results state that your parents are–,” Healer Campbell began cautiously only to have Hermione stand up, face flushed, hands fisted at her sides.

“It’s not possible!” She snapped. She raised a hand in the air and then let it fall to her side. “It’s just… it’s not _possible_.”

“The official tests are stringently performed,” Healer Campbell reminded her. “They have a 99.997% accuracy rating.”

“So there’s a .003% chance that they’re wrong.” Hermione had decided to cling to that .003% stubbornly.

“The only time we’ve ever had documented errors, there were identical twins involved,” Healer Campbell explained with a sigh.

“But this _can’t_ be right.” Hermione’s voice rose to a near wail and she winced, letting her shoulders slump.

“I understand how distressing this must be for you,” Healer Campbell tried to soothe her.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Hermione huffed.

/\/\/\/\/\

Slowly, Hermione crossed her arms over her chest in a protective gesture and pressed her lips together. She should have expected this, really. Every single time things went pear-shaped… well. She should have expected it.

“It’s not because of the… well… it’s not because of _that_ ,” Ron stammered helplessly.

“Then why, Ronald?” Hermione bit out between clenched teeth.

“I just… I think we want different things,” he managed to get out.

Hermione blinked. “I want to work in the Ministry and you want a wife who isn’t Death Eater scum?” She guessed aloud in a brittle voice that made Ron wince.

“You aren’t Death Eater scum,” he protested.

“No,” she agreed. Then she smiled tightly. “I’m just related to them.”

“It isn’t… damn it, Hermione, why do you always have to be so difficult,” he snapped.

She could feel her cheeks flush and she glared at Ron.

“Do you know what I find _fascinating_ ,” Hermione hissed at him furiously. “The _Daily Prophet_ doesn’t even know yet. If they did, that disgusting little beetle would be following me everywhere.”

“Percy was just trying to–,” Ron began.

“Don’t.” Hermione’s eyes burned and she blinked rapidly. She was not going to cry over Ronald Weasley. Not this time. Not ever again.

When Ron began to move towards her, she thought for a moment—for a second—that he was going to apologize. That he would take it all back and everything would be as it had been.

She should have known better.

He left.

 _Again_.

Automatically, her spine stiffened and she lifted her chin defiantly. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught a picture of glimpse of herself in the mirror. The witch looking back out at her was watching her with a haughty, arrogant tilt to her head. Ice filled her veins and her heart constricted in her chest.

For one moment… just one… she had glimpsed her aunt staring out at her from her face. Not Aunt Vivienne who had an unhealthy obsession with shoes and read murder mysteries. No… her biological aunt. The batshit crazy one. The one who had…

When Harry stumbled through her Floo about an hour later, he found her sprawled on her living room floor sobbing into the carpet. He threw himself down next her and pulled her into his arms, rocking her gently. He stroked her hair gently and patted her back.

“It’s going to be alright,” Harry crooned at her. “I promise. He’s not worth all this, Hermione.”

With a hiccup, Hermione sat up in Harry’s lap and glared at him indignantly.

“This isn’t because of _Ronald Weasley_ ,” Hermione managed to get out through her tears.

Harry blinked at her. “Well then, why are you–,”

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione shrieked. “If you think that the only reason a witch could possibly have to cry is over some ill-mannered, immature, petty _man_ , I will punch you!”

“Harder than you punched–,” Harry began with a smirk, but paused when Hermione’s lower lip began to wobble. “Hermione, what… oh. Oh, _Hermione_.”

That was all Harry said for the rest of the night. He just sat there and held her as she sobbed against him until she fell asleep. She woke briefly as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to her bedroom. She mumbled sleepily at him, words garbled in her mouth and then silenced by fatigue. She sighed as he pulled a duvet over her and patted her ankle.


	2. In Which Draco Makes an Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of his life, Draco has been told how important family is. Not once did he imagine that notorious Muggleborn Hermione Granger would be a part of it. Now that she is, Draco is determined to do the right thing. Is Hermione willing to let him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auntie_L is a champ. I seriously heart her big-time. These stories are so much better because of her.

Silence had settled over the entire manor. Thick, oppressive silence. Draco couldn’t ever recall a time when his father had been this angry at his mother. He’d seen him frustrated… amused… and occasionally, so ridiculously besotted that Draco had to leave the room for the sake of his sanity. But he’d never experienced this cold, burning fury from his father whenever he was in the same room as his mother.

It probably didn’t help that Mother didn’t even seem sorry. At best, she seemed to project a stubborn defiance that strangely reminded him of… well, perhaps it wasn’t so strange after all.

“Do they always fight like this?” Theo asked when Mother swept from the dining room, and Father stalked out after her, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“They never fight,” Draco muttered. “This is… this is different.”

Throughout Draco’s childhood his parents had presented a united front. Whatever arguments they might have had behind closed doors, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were never anything but in perfect accord in front of others. The only cracks that Draco had ever seen in that façade had been during the war, when he’d overheard Mother begging Father to _do something_ about him taking the Dark Mark.

“So.” Theo glanced at Draco and waited expectantly.

Draco frowned at him. “What?”

“What’s it like?” Theo prodded at him with an elbow.

“What’s _what_ like?” Draco huffed in exasperation.

“Having a sister.” Theo stared at him, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“How would _I_ know?” Draco frowned at Theo. “It’s not like I had any idea that… that she and I…” Slowly Draco trailed off and swallowed hard.

Guilt had been a constant companion for years now, but recently it had become almost overwhelming.

“I didn’t believe her, at first,” Draco admitted.

“Who?” Theo glanced toward the door. “Your mother?”

“No, Pansy.” Draco explained.

“Pansy? What does Pansy have to do with anything?” Theo shot him a bewildered glance.

“She works for the _Prophet_ ,” Draco reminded him. “She came to me before… before the story broke. She tried to tell me that — I laughed in her face. Told her that as jokes went, this was a little far-fetched.”

“Not as far-fetched as you thought,” Theo pointed out.

“I know that _now_ ,” Draco snapped. He slumped in his seat. “I just… what do I do?”

“You go talk to her,” Theo said firmly. When Draco scoffed incredulously, Theo’s expression turned mulish. “She is _family_ , Draco. She’s your _sister_. Go talk to her.”

“Family. Right.” Draco laughed bitterly. “Her aunt tortured her in our ancestral home in front of her parents and her brother and not one of us lifted a finger to help her. Some family we are.”

“You say that as though you weren’t Crucioed in this house,” Theo countered. He slouched in his chair and frowned at Draco. “You say that as though your parents lifted a finger to stop _your_ torture.”

“You know they couldn’t do anything,” Draco protested. “Fucking _Voldemort_ was living here!”

“Tell her that,” Theo said firmly. “Tell her everything.”

“She’s not going to want to have anything to do with me,” Draco replied. “She’ll probably hex me as soon as she opens the door.”

The muffled sound of something ridiculously expensive shattering against a wall drifted to them and both men winced.

“Who do you think that was?” Theo asked quietly.

“I’m not sure,” Draco sighed.

Throughout his childhood, both Mother and Father had tried to emulate a cool unflappability in the face of any upset. Any disagreements that they had ever had resulted in stiff civility for a day or two, followed by flowers, chocolates, and Draco doing his best to not enter any room without advance warning. There were clear guidelines for comportment that both of his parents had always followed.

Now it seemed as though everything was tenuous and unsure. Divorce wasn’t exactly an option for a full marriage bond, but there was more than one pureblood wife who had chosen to move to the dower house early. If Father couldn’t get past his anger, Draco could easily see this new, defiant version of his mother marching off to the dower house and never returning.

“Bloody, buggering fuck,” Draco muttered. Theo snorted next to him.

“Your mother would have a fit if she heard you talking like that,” his best friend reminded him.

“I’m going to have to go talk to her,” Draco groaned and slumped in his chair. 

“Your mother?” Theo blinked at Draco.

“No, you prat. My sister,” Draco huffed at him.

“Shite,” Theo breathed. “Really?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Draco admitted. “Mother and Father aren’t really speaking to one another. If he can’t forgive her… if she moves into the dower house… I… I don’t know what else to do.”

“Mate.” Theo grimaced slightly. “I wouldn’t lead with that, if I were you.”

Bribery and a favour or two had secured the address that his sister was currently calling home. Number 12 Grimmauld Place. He had heard his mother mention it briefly after Sirius Black had been killed. Cautiously, he knocked on the door. A wizened House Elf answered the door and peered up at him suspiciously.

“What is the wizard wanting?” The House Elf demanded.

“Is Hermione Gr—erm. Is Hermione receiving guests today?” He stumbled over his sister’s name — the only name he’d ever known her by — and grimaced.

The House Elf seemed to twitch slightly and glared at Draco.

“What is _you_ wanting with Kreacher’s Miss Hermione?” The House Elf growled.

“Erm… I…,” Draco stammered helplessly.

“It’s okay, Kreacher,” a familiar voice said with a careless cheer that grated on his nerves. “This poncey git is our Hermione’s brother.”

Draco gritted his teeth in irritation. “Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Potter replied coolly.

“This is Missy Cissy’s boy?” Kreacher asked Potter with a doubtful expression that was vaguely insulting.

“Yeah,” Potter sighed. He turned to look at Kreacher with a smirk. “Should we let him in?”

Kreacher turned to face Draco, fixing him with a gimlet stare. “ _You_ will not upset Kreacher’s Miss Hermione,” he announced flatly.

“I recommend that you listen to him,” Potter added. “He’s become extremely protective of Hermione since we… well. You know.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed.

“Let me see if she’ll see you,” Potter muttered before he turned and slipped back into the house.

Standing awkwardly on the stoop of Potter’s house, he glanced around at the rest of the neighborhood. Perhaps at one time this had been a posh address, but that time had faded into history. He could feel his lip curl slightly as he frowned at the surrounding street.

“Malfoy.” Potter poked his head around the door. “Come on in. She says she’ll see you.”

The house was sparklingly clean, but whoever had decorated the place was a kindred spirit to Aunt Bellatrix. He shuddered as they passed by a row of House Elf heads attached to a wall. Mother had never really spoken about Great-Aunt Walburga, and now Draco knew why.

Seated on a settee in the middle of a gloomy, vaguely menacing parlour sat his sister. Her back was ramrod straight and her chin was tilted up defiantly. Draco blinked at the sudden, glaring similarities between Hermione and Mother.

“Malfoy,” she greeted him in a stiff, brittle voice.

“Granger,” he replied automatically and then winced. It felt _wrong_ to call her that. She was a Malfoy—she was his _sister_. “I mean…”

“Granger is fine.” She twisted her hands in her lap and glanced towards the door. “Won’t you please sit?” She asked.

Gingerly, Draco sat on one of the uncomfortable chairs that littered the room. Kreacher popped into the room and set a tea set on a low table near Hermione. He paused to glare ferociously at Draco before fawning over his sister, asking her if there was anything more she wanted.

“No thank you, Kreacher,” she murmured. “This looks lovely.”

“Kreacher is happy to have pleased Kreacher’s Miss Hermione,” the House Elf burbled happily.

With deft, graceful movements, Hermione poured tea for the both of them. She paused and glanced up at him.

“Milk, no sugar,” Draco answered the unspoken question.

For a moment, Hermione seemed to freeze. Then she recovered and made two cups of tea—both with milk, no sugar. _Oh_. She took her tea that way as well. It seemed an odd thing to be happy about, so Draco kept his expression neutral, and accepted his cup of tea. He sipped at it to give himself something to do and made the appropriate humming noises of appreciation.

“The biscuits are quite good,” Hermione murmured. “Kreacher seems hell-bent on providing a proper tea now that…”

 _Now that he has a proper Mistress_ Draco guessed but forbore to comment aloud. He doubted she would appreciate his opinion on the matter. Potter waltzed into the room and sat on the settee next to Draco’s sister. He sprawled gracelessly, slouching into the cushions and stared at Draco with cold, emerald eyes.

“Why are you here, Malfoy?” Potter asked. Hermione reached out and laid a hand on Potter’s arm.

“Harry,” she murmured repressively and Potter huffed at her.

“We need to know what the tosser wants,” Potter said.

“I wanted to…,” Draco paused, nonplussed.

What _did_ he want? The witch sitting on the couch in front of him watched him with dark, wary eyes. Her hair was a mass of wild curls and he stared back at her, searching for similarities. She had the Black coloring. It was difficult to see anything that he could call _Malfoy_ in her features. She looked rather like some old photographs that Mother had hidden in a drawer of Aunt Andromeda and Aunt Bellatrix laughing and playing with a small blonde Narcissa.

“What?” Hermione demanded. She waved a hand and he gritted his teeth when he saw the scars on her arm. “You came to make nice? Now that I’m all shiny and pureblooded you’re happy to welcome me into the family with open arms?”

“Not exactly,” Draco admitted.

“No?” One dark brow arched and Hermione’s lip curled and Draco suddenly saw the similarities he’d been searching for. Hermione resembled Father at his most haughty and dismissive. “How surprising.”

“This isn’t easy, you know,” he snapped in frustration.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Hermione set down her teacup with a loud clink, and she gave a brittle laugh. “ _This_ isn’t easy for _you_? Harry, did you know? _This_ isn’t _easy_ for Malfoy.”

Potter smiled smugly at him from his place on the settee next to Hermione.

“Fuck,” Draco groaned and closed his eyes. “Look, this isn’t what I wanted to do.”

“What, exactly, did you want to do?” Hermione demanded.

“I just wanted to… to meet you,” Draco groaned again. “I mean… not _meet_ you, of course. We met in school--,”

“Yes, where you called me a Mudblood and went out of your way to make my life miserable,” Hermione reminded him.

“But I was wrong,” Draco tried again.

“So now that I’m not some filthy, disgusting Mudblood, _now_ you’d like to make my acquaintance?” Hermione stood and Draco could see that she was shaking slightly. Potter stood next to her and put a hand on her shoulder, his fingers tightening in a show of support.

“You’re my sister,” Draco said quietly, trying to explain everything he didn’t have the words to say.

“Fuck you,” Hermione snarled. She spun on her heel and marched out of the room.

The door slammed behind her in an impressive display of wandless magic. Potter winced and gave Draco an expression of sympathy.

“She’s… she’s going through a lot right now,” Potter muttered. He waved a hand at Draco. “Trying to… to process everything. It hasn’t been… Ron didn’t take it well.”

Draco blinked at that.

“Weasley broke off an understanding with my sister because she’s a Malfoy?” Draco asked incredulously, insulted on his sister’s behalf.

“It wasn’t an understanding,” Potter protested.

“She believed he was going to marry her, did she not?” Draco countered. Potter flushed and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck.

“I suppose that would be one way of looking at it,” he admitted.

“The bloody bastard,” Draco breathed, fury churning in his gut.

His sister was too good for Ron fucking Weasley. Draco was going to _ruin_ him. He was going to make the previous two hundred years look as though the Malfoys and the Weasleys were the best of friends. By the time Draco was done with Ronald Weasley, he wouldn’t be able to get a job shoveling hippogriff dung.

“Yeah,” Potter sighed. “I told him off but good. Ginny’s mad at me and refuses to speak to me until I apologize to Ron.”

“If you apologize to that jilting bastard, I’ll —”

Potter took a step closer to him, invading his personal space and frowned at Draco.

“Hermione is my family,” Potter said flatly. “She’s been my family for far longer than she’s been yours. Ron was out of line, and I told him so. If Ginny can’t handle that, then perhaps it’s best that we break-up as well.”

“Good,” Draco retorted.

“It’s not like I’m going to let some pureblood bastard give her a hard time about her blood status,” Potter continued. He let his gaze rake over Draco scathingly. “I think she’s had enough of that in her life. Don’t you?”


	3. In Which Lucius Broods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming a father, again, at his age is not something that Lucius had ever considered. Certainly he had never imagined it happening under circumstances like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auntie_L is perfection! 
> 
> The Falcons--all of them--have been lovely and wonderful.

~Chapter Three- In Which Lucius Broods~

A daughter. He had a _daughter_. That thought had been spinning around in his brain for weeks, but he hadn’t been able to properly process it. Every time he saw her face splashed across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ it would take him a moment to remember that she was his daughter. He had stared at every picture for hours, but there was nothing of him in her face or her mannerisms. His daughter looked as though she were Bellatrix or Andromeda’s daughter, not his.

The latest edition had captured her leaving a restaurant with Potter. Cold fury flashed in her eyes for the briefest moment before a tight, brittle smile stretched her lips in a parody of happiness. A shiver went down his spine at that look. It was pure Black, and it spelled the downfall of whichever reporter and photographer had accosted her. He glanced curiously at the bylines, making a note of the names for later.

The only thing that had kept Lucius together was his son. He needed to keep it together for Draco’s sake. Things were difficult for Lucius, but he couldn’t imagine what Draco must be going through. He had never outright said, but Lucius had ample suspicion that his son had actively worked to make his sister’s time at school unpleasant. 

Guilt, an unpleasant emotion at the best of times, crawled through Lucius as he recalled the unfortunate run-in with his daughter’s foster parents at Flourish & Blott’s just before Draco’s second year. Well… _their_ second year, he supposed.

What must the girl think of him? What must _Draco_ think of him? With a dawning sense of horror, Lucius realized that he hadn’t yet spoken to Draco about… all of this. Normally, that would have been something that he and Narcissa would have done together. Given the fact that he and Narcissa weren’t really speaking to one another, that hadn’t been possible.

Taking a deep breath, Lucius stood up. He needed to speak to his son. He needed to find a way through all of this. The walk to Draco’s rooms seemed unnaturally quiet. The Manor itself seemed so still, lately. He had moved his things to his father’s old rooms in the East wing. If he took meals in his rooms, he could go days without seeing anyone. He had done that in the beginning, but he worried about how that might affect Draco, and he had resumed taking meals in the dining room with his family.

“Draco?” He knocked on the door and then opened it, entering his son’s suite.

A robe tossed carelessly over the back of a chair was the only thing that greeted Lucius. He frowned and turned about in a circle.

“Draco?” He tried again.

A quick glance in his son’s bedroom revealed a neatly made bed and a pile of Quidditch gear in one corner. The bathroom was completely empty. He headed back towards Draco’s sitting room with a small frown on his face.

It wasn’t as though Draco _couldn’t_ leave the Manor. He wasn’t under house arrest, but for the past few weeks Draco had stuck close to home. The few times he had left the house, he had spoken to Lucius—not quite asking permission, but letting his father know where he was.

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa called out as she opened the door to Draco’s suite. She froze in the doorway as soon as she saw him, her face becoming a cool, impenetrable mask. “Lucius.”

“Narcissa,” he replied evenly.

They stared at one another silently for several minutes. Lucius couldn’t be sure, but this might be the longest that they had been in the same room together for weeks.

Despite her best efforts, the cracks in her façade were beginning to show. The lines around her mouth were more prominent than they normally were and she seemed worn thin. Lucius’ heart ached in his chest. He had been married to this witch for twenty-five years. She had been his comfort and his home for all that time, and now… now it felt as though she were a stranger.

A dull flush rose in Narcissa’s cheeks as she averted her eyes. Her robes swirled around her legs as she turned to leave the room. Frustration flooded him, and for the first time Lucius lost control of his temper.

“Don’t you think that you owe me an explanation,” Lucius demanded his hands fisted at his sides.

“Your father was a loyal Death Eater,” Narcissa replied flatly. She took a step into the room and Lucius fought the urge to take a step back. “You took the Mark willingly. You were panting for the honour of it.”

“You knew all of that when you married me,” Lucius protested.

“I knew that you were charming and sweet and read me poetry,” Narcissa countered with a snarl. “I knew that you were a gentleman from a good family. I knew that you and I would suit one another very well. _That’s_ what I knew, Lucius. I was _seventeen_.”

“As though _your_ family weren’t in the thick of it,” Lucius retorted. “Bellatrix begged to take the Mark. Regulus —,”

“Don’t!” Narcissa’s voice rose and she glared at him. “He came to me, before he was murdered. Did you know? He told me _everything_. All of you were oblivious fools that condemned our world to ruin. Voldemort was determined to destroy all of us. I was not going to let that happen. Not to my child.”

“What are you talking about?” Confusion twisted through Lucius. What did Narcissa mean?

“Horcruxes,” Narcissa hissed at him. “Did you think that I didn’t know what that nasty little diary was, Lucius?”

Horror filled Lucius. “What?”

“The diary. The one your father insisted you guard as though it were the family grimoire. The one that somehow made its way into the Weasley girl’s things,” Narcissa reminded him coldly.

“I know about the diary, Cissa,” Lucius snapped in frustration. “No, you said _Horcruxes_. Plural. As in, more than one.”

“Oh, well spotted, Lucius,” Narcissa huffed at him.

“Damn it, woman!” Lucius bellowed.

“Father… Mother.” Draco stood in the doorway of his suite frowning at the both of them.

Immediately, Lucius could see that Draco was upset. His skin was a chalky-grey and there were dark circles under his eyes. Draco’s eyes were suspiciously red, and his clothes looked as though he’d slept in them.

“Draco,” Narcissa murmured, her hands fluttering as though she wanted to go to their son and take him in her arms.

“What are you doing in my rooms?” Draco asked wearily.

“I was looking for you,” Lucius stated and then glanced at Narcissa to see her press her lips together and her hands fall to her sides.

“I was looking for you as well,” Narcissa sighed.

“Why?” Confusion flickered over Draco’s features.

“This must have come as a shock to you,” Lucius began stiffly. “I apologize that I have not spoken to you previously.”

“Did you know?” Draco’s voice rose and he was staring at Lucius in surprise.

Lucius blinked. “No, of course not!” He glanced at Narcissa, who was watching them both with a neutral expression. “This was a shock to me as well.”

“How could you?” Draco’s voice cracked and he had turned to stare at Narcissa. “How could you leave her like that? With _Muggles_? Completely unprotected?”

“I did what I had to do,” Narcissa said fiercely. Her eyes had hardened and she lifted her chin defiantly. “I would have done the same with you, if I had been given the opportunity. I would do _anything_ to protect my children.”

“She was petrified!” Draco bellowed. He gestured toward the rest of the Manor. “She was tortured _here_ , in her own home! Because no one knew who she was!”

“You were tortured here, in your own home and everyone knew exactly who you were,” Narcissa whispered. A tear slid down her cheek. “I failed you, my dragon.”

“No,” Draco protested. “Mother, no.”

“I should leave,” Narcissa announced. She spun on her heel and hurried from Draco’s room.

He turned to face Lucius. “Father, please.”

“What do you want me to do, Draco?” Lucius asked hoarsely.

“I don’t know,” Draco sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I just don’t know anymore, Father.”

“I should go,” Lucius decided. He paused and frowned at the picture his son made. “You’re tired. You should rest. I’ll sent Lolly up with some soup later.”

“Thank you, that sounds lovely,” Draco murmured.

Hesitantly, Lucius raised his hand and patted Draco’s shoulder. He let his fingers squeeze gently and then he let go, letting his hand fall to his side before walking out of Draco’s room. He pulled the door closed behind him and leaned against the wall for a moment to regain his composure.

Once Lucius caught his breath, he walked down the hall, heading toward the wing that he’d claimed as his own of late. It was in a more remote section of the Manor, removed from the family suites, but he had felt as though he needed the distance to work through his emotions. There was no way for him to be calm, cool, and collected about any of this.

The suite that Lucius had chosen was done in soft blues. He slumped into a chair and let his head fall back against the over-stuffed upholstery. The adrenaline of confronting Narcissa drained out of him, leaving him exhausted and a little raw. His eyelids slid shut and he sighed heavily.

“Father?” Draco’s voice drifted to him.

“Hmm.” Lucius grumbled and shifted in his chair.

“Father?”

This time, the voice was a little more insistent and there was a light touch on Lucius’ arm. He started violently and sat up, blinking blearily up at Draco.

“What?” Lucius asked and winced at the rough, raspiness of his voice.

“Did you fall asleep in your sitting room?” Draco asked incredulously.

“What time is it?” Lucius asked, ignoring Draco’s question.

“It’s 10 o’clock in the morning.” Draco announced in a faintly scandalized tone that Lucius found he did not care for at all.

Bloody hell. Lucius had slept through the entire day and night. He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers brushing over the day-old growth of facial hair. Then he paused and took his hands away from his face. Draco was here, in Lucius’ new suite.

“Are you well, Draco?” Lucius asked worriedly. “Has something happened?” He stood as something occurred to him. “There isn’t another article in the _Prophet_ , is there?”

“Father, no,” Draco sighed. He sat in a chair next to the one that Lucius had slept in. “Can we talk about this?”

“About… what?” Lucius asked cautiously. Draco frowned at him.

“I want to talk about my sister.” Draco paused and rubbed at his temples. “Hermione. I want to talk about Hermione.”

“I didn’t even know she existed,” Lucius stated flatly.

“How could you not know?” Draco asked with a confused expression. “Surely you knew that Mother…” he stumbled and paused, flushing and averting his eyes.

“Your mother was _enceinte_ on multiple occasions,” Lucius explained quietly. He gave Draco a strained, sad smile. “The Healers did all sorts of tests, but most of it boiled down to me. There’s a rare condition in the Malfoy line. It might be the result of a curse—it’s difficult to say at this point. It meant that most of our attempts at having a child were not… successful.”

“So you assumed that it was another miscarriage,” Draco murmured.

 _Another miscarriage_. So much pain wrapped up in so few words. Every time had hurt just as much as the first. Every time the Healers had broken the news to them as gently as possible. Every time, Narcissa had sobbed until the Healers had sedated her. Every time, Lucius had tried to focus on work, and pushed down the grief that had threatened to swamp him.

“It had happened more than once before,” Lucius agreed.

“What do we do now?” Draco asked. He turned to stare at Lucius with familiar silver-grey eyes. “We can’t just… she’s _family_. She’s a _Malfoy_.”

“I have set up a trust account for her at Gringotts,” Lucius replied stiffly. “The goblins are under strict instructions to allow her the use of the vault’s contents regardless of which name she uses.”

For a long moment Draco just stared at him, blinking slowly.

“You set up a trust account for her at Gringotts,” Draco repeated.

“Yes, of course,” Lucius huffed. “I know my duty to the girl, Draco.”

“Father, does _she_ know that you’ve set up a trust vault for her?” Draco asked with a peculiar expression on his face.

“She will. I have instructed our lawyers to send her paperwork about her trust account, her dowry, and her inheritance from my mother,” Lucius recited.

“What inheritance?” Draco asked in confusion.

“Mother set a few things for my first-born daughter,” Lucius explained. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s a few pieces of jewelry that have been passed down on her side of the family from mother to daughter or mother to granddaughter, a vault at Gringotts, and a chateau in France.”

“Father… Gra—I mean, Hermione isn’t the sort of witch that will take that well,” Draco warned him.

“Don’t be silly, Draco,” Lucius scoffed. “What witch doesn’t want vaults in her name, priceless heirloom jewels, and a chateau in France?”

“My sister,” Draco informed him drily. He paused and grimaced. “There’s really no hope for it, Father. You’re going to have to go and see her. Maybe if you go see her in person, we can try and fix this.”

“Fix what?” Lucius protested. “I’m doing everything that I should be doing as her paterfamilias!”

“Please, _please_ tell me that you haven’t signed a contract on her behalf,” Draco begged.   
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco,” Lucius scoffed dismissively. He frowned and shook his head. “I’ve received several, of course, but I’ve sent everyone polite refusals.”

“Bloody hell, Father,” Draco groaned and put his head in his hands.


	4. In Which Narcissa Regrets Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with the unthinkable, Narcissa was forced to make desperate choices. What would a mother do, to save her child?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : Brief note about Evan Rosier: The only information we have about him in canon is from Sirius Black, who remembers him dying about a year before Voldemort fell. Memory is a notoriously fickle thing. Considering the personal emotional trauma that Sirius had tied up in Voldemort’s fall and the death of James and Lily Potter (not to mention his incarceration), I think it’s fair to say that he might not have had the dates exactly right. Therefore, because it is convenient to the plot of this story—we’re killing Evan Rosier off in May of 1979. My head canon is that Regulus dies in the summer of 1979—after he graduated from Hogwarts. It would have been the earliest possible time that he could have left to investigate Voldemort’s cave.

_~_ Chapter 4: In Which Narcissa Regrets Nothing~  


_Je ne regrette rien_. It had become Narcissa’s motto over the years. One made choices and one lived with the consequences of those choices, whatever they might be. Regretting—dwelling on what might have been—only led to madness. It did no good to go over her choices again and again to see if the consequences might have been different.

When Regulus had come to her, pale and shaking, spinning a tale that was too fantastical to be believed, he had already made his own choice.

_“What are you going to do?” she had asked her favourite cousin, clutching his hands fearfully._

_“I’m going to destroy it,” Regulus had sworn. He glanced at Narcissa’s thickening waistline. “Can’t have my godchild being born into this mess, can I?”_

The remark had been light and flippant, meant to soothe his pregnant cousin’s fears, but instead it made everything so clear. Regulus had been right. Her child, _this_ child, couldn’t be born into this mess.

Evan Rosier had already died, leaving the Rosier family in its death throes. Regulus disappeared and no one knew what had happened to him. Narcissa sat down with parchment and quill and an abacus. When she was done she sat back in her chair and stared at the wall, unseeing, until a House Elf came looking for her.

The Dark Lord, _Voldemort_ , regardless of what you called him, was destroying their world. The sheer numbers of magical families that had been utterly destroyed was stunning. Her child could not be born into this world. She refused to offer her child up on an altar to the Dark Lord’s hubris and greed.

How would she do it?

For months, she planned and schemed. She reached out to Andromeda, and shockingly Andromeda replied.

_“I can disguise myself as Bellatrix,” Andromeda suggested. “It would be easy enough to do, and no one would question her being at Malfoy Manor.”_

_“What then?” Narcissa wondered aloud._

_“You can’t know that part. You can’t reveal what you don’t know, Cissy,” Andromeda explained._

_“But–” Narcissa began and then stopped when Andromeda shook her head._

_“If they even suspect, what do you think Abraxas Malfoy would do to you?” Andromeda reminded her._

_“How will I know if they’re safe? If they’re happy?” Narcissa whispered._

_“I know someone,” Andromeda said then. She bit her lip and leaned forward. “Someone who will help me find a good, kind family. They will be the happiest of babies, Cissy, I promise you. I’ll make sure that they are loved and well-cared for.”_

When the time had come, Narcissa hadn’t been ready. Lucius and Abraxas were both out of the country doing some sort of mission for their Dark Lord and Narcissa had been left alone in Malfoy Manor with a couple of House Elves that were bound to the Malfoy family. She stood to walk across the room to the piano when her water broke.

It was too early. As quickly as she could, she made her way to the owlery, and sent a frantic note to her sister. When Andromeda had stepped out of the Floo, already Polyjuiced as Bellatrix, Narcissa almost flinched, but she controlled herself. The Healer in Andromeda took over, and she helped Narcissa into her suite.

By the time the baby was delivered, Narcissa had been exhausted, but she had clutched at Andromeda’s arm.

_“Please,” she had begged._

_“It’s a girl,” Andromeda whispered. She wrapped the baby in a blanket that she had brought with her and tucked her in Narcissa’s arms. “We don’t have long, Cissy.”_

_“She’s beautiful,” Narcissa whispered as she stared at small life in her arms._

_“She is,” Andromeda agreed. She pulled the flask out of her pocket and took another drink of her Polyjuice before she touched Narcissa’s shoulder. “I have to go now, Cissy.”_

_“I know,” Narcissa said. She leaned down and pressed her lips against the baby’s forehead. “Be happy, little one.”_

_“She’ll have a good life, Cissy,” Andromeda whispered. “I promise.”_

Not once had Narcissa tried to look for her child. Even after the Dark Lord disappeared, she hadn’t dared to do so. She knew what Abraxas Malfoy kept under lock and key. Lucius might suspect, but Narcissa _knew_ what it was.

The Dark Lord had returned at the end of Draco’s fourth year and Narcissa had made offerings to the Old Gods. She prayed that the daughter she did not know may be far, far away from the Dark Lord’s influence and that the son that she did know would somehow be safe. _Let him live_ , she had begged. _Keep him safe_.

She had failed both of her children.

A light rap on her door startled Narcissa out of her reverie.

“Mother?” Draco opened her door and peeked in. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course, Draco,” Narcissa replied immediately.

“It’s about Hermione,” Draco warned her.

 _Hermione_. Narcissa took an unsteady breath.

“Very well,” she agreed.

“ _Why_?” Draco’s voice cracked on the word and he flushed in embarrassment.

“My role was set from the moment that I was born,” Narcissa said slowly. “As a child, I knew that I would go to Hogwarts, I knew that I would Sort into Slytherin, and I knew that I would marry a wizard from one of the Sacred 28. You, no doubt, always had those same expectations for yourself.”

Draco nodded. “I never even questioned it,” he admitted in a quiet voice. “Not until I was forced to do so.”

“When I was young, Voldemort had quietly been on the rise for over 30 years. Slowly, subtly, he had been gathering followers and acolytes,” Narcissa continued. “Your grandfather Abraxas was a school chum of Voldemort’s. My parents were too young to have gone to school with him and Cousin Orion was several years younger than Voldemort, but he had managed to impress my sister—your Aunt Bellatrix.”

“Mother… I know all of this,” Draco protested.

“I need you to understand that the Death Eaters were… they were everywhere, and no one _feared_ them. How could we fear people like Lucius Malfoy or Rodolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier? They were _good_ boys. They were our sort of people: pureblood, rich, Slytherin families,” Narcissa tried to explain. She shook her head. “They were at all the best parties and received into every home.”

“What changed?” Draco asked quietly.

“Nothing, at first,” Narcissa replied. “I was happily married to your father, the lady of Malfoy Manor. The only thing that would have made our lives complete was a child.”

“Father explained about that.” Draco averted his gaze and his pale cheeks flushed with color.

“I wanted a child so badly,” Narcissa said. She smiled at Draco when his eyes jerked to hers, startled. “I was thrilled when I made it through the first trimester and I was still pregnant. I was so careful. Lucius had the House Elves see to my every need—he wouldn’t stand for me lifting even a finger.”

“I don’t understand.” Draco huffed in irritation and rubbed at his temples. “How can you go from wanting her to just… just throwing her away?” He turned to stare at Narcissa with wet eyes. “How could you do that? To _her_?”

“My cousin Evan died in May of 1979,” Narcissa stated. “He certainly wasn’t the first, but he was the first that I _knew_. He danced with me at my debutante ball. A couple of weeks later, my cousin Regulus came to visit me when he knew that Lucius and Abraxas were out.”

“Cousin Regulus?” Draco repeated. “Sirius Black’s brother?”

“We were very close,” Narcissa said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He told me that… he warned me that Voldemort had performed magic that was darker than anything that he had previously realized. He had… do you know what a Horcrux is, Draco?”

“No,” Draco replied with a shake of his head.

Briefly, Narcissa cupped his cheek with her hand. He was such a sweet boy—still so innocent, even after everything that had happened.

“It is foul magic—an abomination against the Gods and against magic itself,” Narcissa spat out, still infuriated by the gall of _that man_. “A Horcrux is a desecration of one’s magical soul by ritual murder. Even the Dark Ones which we have always followed hold the soul sacred.”

“O—kay,” Draco said slowly. “A Horcrux is… bad. What does that have to do with you throwing away my sister?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Narcissa cried.

“What was it like then?” Draco countered.

“My cousin Evan was _dead –_ the end of the Rosier line,” Narcissa repeated. “My cousin Regulus, my closest relative by that point, came to me and told me that he had to do something to stop Voldemort because he couldn’t allow _my child_ , his future godchild, to be born into the mess our families had made of everything.” She took a shuddering breath. “I never saw Regulus again after that night. I knew he was dead two weeks later when the tapestry updated itself. My cousin Orion, his father, had a stroke and died.”

Draco frowned at her and Narcissa threw her hands up in frustration.

“Don’t you see, Draco? He was destroying us! I knew, _I knew_ , that Abraxas would sacrifice any child I had and willingly for whatever purpose Voldemort had. Any child I had would be a victim of Voldemort’s insatiable greed. Just like Evan. Just like Regulus,” Narcissa declared passionately.

“So you did… what, exactly?” Draco pressed her for more details.

“I reached out to my sister Andromeda. We were estranged, and I wasn’t sure that she would answer my letter, but she did.” Narcissa swallowed hard. “She had trained at St. Mungo’s to become a Healer, you see. She helped me fake a miscarriage while your father and your grandfather were out of town. She promised me that the baby would be placed with kind, loving people.”

“Wait.” Draco held up a hand and stared at his mother in surprise. “You had no idea where the baby was taken?”

“None,” Narcissa admitted. “To be honest, I hoped that Andromeda had taken her to France or Germany. Somewhere far away from here. I had hoped that she ended up attending Beauxbatons or perhaps Durmstrang.”

“Is that why you argued against me going to Durmstrang?” Draco asked in surprise.

“I couldn’t risk her being discovered,” Narcissa whispered. “Especially not while your grandfather was still alive.”

“Why not when grandfather was alive?” Draco shook his head. “What difference would that make?”

“As the paterfamilias of the Malfoy family, Abraxas had the same power that your father currently holds,” Narcissa reminded him. “He could have taken her from everything she knew. He probably would have given her to Rabastan or Hereward Travers.”

Draco shuddered reflexively. “Father would never have allowed that,” he protested.

“Your father would have had no say in it. The paterfamilias’ word is binding for the entire family. Abraxas had the power to sign contracts on both her and your behalf,” Narcissa pointed out.

The moment when Draco believed her was easy to pinpoint. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, and she knew that she believed what she was telling him. He opened his eyes again and stared at her solemnly.

“Did you mean it?” He asked.

“Did I mean what?” Narcissa countered.

“You said you would have done the same with me—did you mean that?” He asked.

“If I could have faked another miscarriage, I would have gladly given you up,” Narcissa said fiercely. She gestured at the room around her. “If I could have spared you all of _this_ —if I could have given you a chance at happiness I would have grabbed onto it willingly.”

“But it _didn’t_ spare her,” Draco protested. “It didn’t change anything! She still had to deal with Voldemort. She was hurt despite what you tried to do.”

“I kept you, and it didn’t spare you,” Narcissa hissed. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I dragged you into the middle of this mess and you were forced to rub elbows with rapists and murderers. _That man_ tortured you in front of me and I could do _nothing_ to stop it. There was no way to win. Not for me and mine.”

“Mother,” Draco whispered.

Gently, as though he thought she might object, his arms came around her and he pulled her to his chest. He awkwardly patted her back as she struggled to regain her control.

“I’m sorry Draco,” she managed to get out through the lump in her throat. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I think I understand,” he murmured into her hair. “I don’t know that I would have made the same choices, but… I think I know why you made them.”

“That’s more than I ever expected,” Narcissa admitted.

There was a moment of quiet broken by Draco clearing his throat.

“There’s another reason why I wanted to speak to you,” Draco admitted. “It’s about Father.”

“Is he booting me to the Dower House?” Narcissa asked suspiciously. She pulled back and frowned at her son. “And he made you break the news to me? That wasn’t well done of him at all, Draco.”

“No, Mother, it’s not that. It’s… Mother, you have to stop Father from making an utter arse of himself in front of Hermione,” Draco blurted out.

“I—what?” Narcissa blinked in confusion. “What has your father done to Hermione?”

What followed was a jumbled, rambling story about inheritances, betrothal contracts, and Hermione punching her son in their third year.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Narcissa demanded. “Is this about Artemesia’s bequest? Draco, darling, it will be fine. We’ll just explain that her grandmother wanted to make sure that she was taken care of no matter what happened.”

“No, you don’t understand, Mother, Father is going to completely ruin any chance he ever had of making Hermione care about him. She’s going to think he’s a fathead!” Draco didn’t quite wail, but it was a near thing.

“Well, your father is hardly likely to listen to me,” Narcissa protested. “He can barely stand to look at me.”

“We can’t let him be alone with her,” Draco pressed. “He’ll insult her or her upbringing, and she’ll set him on fire, the way she did Uncle Severus!”


	5. In Which Andromeda Makes a Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione met Andromeda Tonks during the war, and she respected the older witch. Finding out that Andromeda was her aunt was a surprise. Can Hermione handle the long-hidden family secrets Andromeda reveals?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been a saving grace for me. It has allowed me to work out ALL THE FEELS that current events have brought out in me. As some of you already know, I signed up for the April Rough Trade challenge. I'll be working away on that fic, but I absolutely plan to finish this off. I don't anticipate it being astronomically huge or epic or anything like that anyway.
> 
> Also, a HUGE thank you to Auntie_L. She makes it all so much better. 
> 
> Long distance, virtual, social distance-approved hugs from me to you, darlings. This is some weird, weird shit we're all living through. Be kind to yourselves and each other.

“I appreciate your willingness to see me,” Andromeda said as soon as she entered the parlour.

Hermione blinked in confusion. Harry had encouraged her to give her family a chance, and reaching out to Andromeda had seemed like an easy way to accomplish that. She already knew Andromeda—had already established a relationship with her—it seemed _much_ easier than speaking to her... her brother, or her parents.

“We’re always happy to have you and Teddy over for a visit,” Hermione said cautiously. “I know that being a godfather is very important to Harry.”

“No, I meant…,” Andromeda sat down in a wingback chair and frowned. “Well, with everything, I assumed that you… I wanted to give you a chance to ask me any questions you might have.”

This was not the reaction that Hermione had expected from Andromeda at all. She had expected some awkwardness and subtle changes in their relationship. She had not expected the _guilt_ that Andromeda seemed to be showing.

“Andromeda,” Hermione began slowly and then paused. “What questions would you be able to answer?”

Suddenly, Andromeda became utterly still.

“Have you not spoken to Narcissa?” Andromeda asked.

“No,” Hermione replied. She frowned at Andromeda. “The only Malfoy that has dared to approach Grimmauld Place has been Draco.”

“Oh.” Andromeda shifted in her chair and moved as though she were about to stand. “Perhaps I should come back.”

“Sit,” Hermione said in a cold voice that Andromeda obeyed automatically. “What, exactly, do you think I need to know, _Aunt_ Andromeda?” She asked stressing their relationship deliberately

Andromeda flinched and grimaced slightly.

“It is quite clear that Cousin Colomba had a hand in raising you,” Andromeda muttered.

“ _What_?” Hermione whispered the word, but it seemed to echo in the room between them.

Never had Hermione ever expected anyone to know who her grand-mère was. In all the time that she had known him, Harry had never once asked why her family spent every summer in France. She never spoke about the French half of her family to anyone, and no one had ever asked. How did _Andromeda_ know her grand-mère?

“Regulus was going to be your godfather,” Andromeda stated with a slightly sad smile. “Did you know?”

“R-Regulus?” Hermione repeated with wide eyes.

“He and Cissy were quite close,” Andromeda explained. “He was so excited that Lucius and Cissy were trusting him with the firstborn Malfoy. It was a great honour.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wasn’t up for consideration, as you might have guessed.”

“What does my grande-mère have to do with anything?” Hermione demanded, frustrated with the way Andromeda’s conversation seemed to bounce around.

“When my sister owled me—you could have knocked me over with a feather,” Andromeda continued, seemingly ignoring Hermione’s comment. “I never expected to hear from her again, you see. I went to see her, of course. Cissy was the baby of the family. Everyone adored her.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione said stiffly growing more irritated by the moment.

“When I arrived at Malfoy Manor, she was practically hysterical. She was ranting about how Voldemort was destroying wizarding Britain and that he had corrupted his magical soul,” Andromeda said with an air of dogged determination.

“What was that?” Hermione asked sharply. Grand-mère could wait for a moment. This was, unfortunately, more important than grand-mère.

“It was awful,” Andromeda said with a shake of her head. “She was weeping and tugging at her hair. I had to give her a calming draught before I could even get her to—”

“No,” Hermione interrupted her. “You said that Voldemort had corrupted his magical soul.”

“Yes, that’s what Cissy said,” Andromeda agreed.

“My m—Narcissa talked about Voldemort corrupting his magical soul,” Hermione repeated.

“Apparently that’s what Regulus had told her,” Andromeda offered with a helpless shrug. “He had just died and so had Cousin Orion, so everyone was a little upset. That’s why Narcissa asked me to help her.”

“Help her do what?” Hermione asked with a frown.

“Hide you,” Andromeda replied quietly.

“Hide me?” Hermione sat back in her chair and stared at Andromeda.

“She knew that… well, she was right, wasn’t she? Her worst fears were realized in Draco,” Andromeda explained. “Any child of theirs would be offered up to Voldemort. She was so terrified of that. She must have gone round the twist when they Marked Draco. It was the last thing she’d ever wanted. She sacrificed so much to make sure that would never happen to you.”

“And you helped her,” Hermione stated slowly.

“I… yes, I did.” Andromeda lifted her chin defiantly. “I knew what would happen. Cissy wasn’t wrong.”

“So you helped them hide me,” Hermione said. She shook her head. “Why didn’t they hide Draco?”

“No,” Andromeda corrected Hermione. “Just Cissy. Abraxas Malfoy would never have allowed a child of his House to have their freedom. If Abraxas had discovered her secret, he would have had the legal right to torture and kill my sister for separating him from his rightful heirs.” Andromeda’s lip curled. “If she could have smuggled Draco out, believe me—she would have done so.”

“What?” Hermione’s eyes went damp with unshed tears. “Who _does_ that?”

Just when she thought her family couldn’t possibly be any more horrible, any more depraved, she was proven wrong. Self-loathing and disgust filled her.

“Abraxas would have been most displeased to learn that a _valuable_ familial asset had been lost. He could have traded you for political leverage, prestige, or to gain a favour,” Andromeda explained flatly. A bitter smile twisted her lips. “My own father was furious when I ran away — he had already begun negotiations with the House of Nott. My consent was not required.”

“So… so Lucius—” Hermione had paled dramatically and looked distinctly green around the edges. Andromeda sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I beg your pardon, Hermione,” Andromeda said. “This is not easy for me to talk about and I think I’ve done a poor job of it. Lucius and Narcissa were incredibly rare in our world. Lucius managed make Cissy fall head over heels for him by the time they were married. Theirs was an arranged match that morphed into a love match.”

“But,” Hermione swallowed. “She didn’t trust her husband enough to tell him that… she didn’t think that Lucius would try to protect me.” Her voice broke on the last word.

“It wasn’t that,” Andromeda protested. She laughed and shook her head. “Merlin help me, I’m defending Lucius Malfoy of all people. It’s not that she didn’t think that he would try to save you. It’s… look, a paterfamilias has total control of the family. By that time, Lucius was bound by oaths of loyalty to Abraxas, and most likely to Voldemort.”

Horror flickered across Hermione’s face. “That doesn’t help.”

“Hermione,” Andromeda sighed. “Lucius was a child. Abraxas had him take the Mark as soon as he graduated. He was seventeen years old and all he knew was what his father had told him.”

“And then he turned around and did the same thing to Draco,” Hermione said in disgust.

“He had nothing to do with that,” Andromeda protested. “He was in Azkaban at the time!”

“So you helped Narcissa Malfoy smuggle her child out of Malfoy Manor and… what?” Hermione demanded crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do you call my grand-mère ,“cousin”?”

“Colomba Delenoir married Raymond deVissac,” Andromeda recited as if by rote. She paused and glanced at a pale, still Hermione.

“Delenoir.” Hermione stared at Andromeda with wide eyes.

“Colomba was the youngest daughter of Marius Black, who took the name Delenoir when he fled to the Continent after he was disowned,” Andromeda said. “When I was disowned, he reached out to me and introduced me to his daughter, Colomba.”

“But…,” Hermione protested shaking her head. “I don’t understand. What are you saying? My parents weren’t Muggles?”

Andromeda winced. “I can’t speak for your foster father,” Andromeda said carefully. “Colomba and Elaine would be considered squibs in our world. In fact, Elaine was raised with no knowledge of the wizarding world at all.”

“Why did you alter their memories?” Hermione demanded. “What was the point?”

“Everything was done to protect you,” Andromeda replied. She cleared her throat. “Colomba and Marius were worried about repercussions. They asked me to… to make sure that the Grangers wouldn’t be able to accidentally reveal your true identity. It was critical that who you really were remained a secret. No one could know.”

“Not even my own family,” Hermione muttered.

“Especially not your family,” Andromeda countered. She shook her head. “What do you think my _sister_ … what Bellatrix would have done, if she found out? She would have handed you to Voldemort wrapped up like a _gift_.”

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione stood up, her hands clenched into fists.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Andromeda snapped. She took a deep breath, visibly struggling for control. “I beg your pardon. I promised myself that I would stay calm through this.”

Hermione sat back down and frowned at her lap.

“Did Tonks know?” Hermione asked hesitantly. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to know the answer.

“No.” Andromeda shook her head. “If she had known, she would have told Sirius, and if he had known… he probably would have named you his Heir or something equally rash and foolish and Dumbledore would have chewed you up and spit you out in his machinations.”

“I thought you were an Order member,” Hermione observed quietly.

“Nymphadora joined against my express wishes,” Andromeda sighed. Grief shone in her eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t just let her wander off on whatever idiotic adventure Dumbledore suggested. I wanted to make sure I could help her, if she needed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione murmured.

The fact that Tonks—funny, effervescent Tonks—had been her cousin, and that neither one of them had ever known it saddened Hermione. Having Tonks as part of her life would have probably changed her in immeasurable ways. Who would she have been? How would it have been different?

“No, I’m sorry,” Andromeda countered. “I— _we_ took everything from you. I can say that it was to protect you, and it was, but it doesn’t change what we did. I would understand if you were upset.”

“Upset?” Hermione repeated incredulously. A startled laugh escaped her. “Upset? I’m bloody _furious_. I’m so angry that I can barely see straight. Do you know what it’s like to wake up and find that out you are not who you thought you were? No, you’re actually directly related to people who have raped and murdered and tortured other human beings because they were _different_.”

“I do, actually,” Andromeda corrected Hermione. Her lips tightened and her expression became neutral. “After I married Ted, Bellatrix went on a… a _spree_. She made sure to… let’s just say that she made sure that I knew what she had done, and that she was responsible.”

Bile rose in Hermione’s throat and she swallowed.

“I knew that my family was conservative and traditional,” Andromeda added evenly. “I knew that Ted wouldn’t be welcome in my parents’ home, but I never… I didn’t believe that—”

“It was a shock,” Hermione suggested.

“Yes,” Andromeda agreed with a nod. “It was a shock.”

“Is that why?” Hermione asked hesitantly, unwilling to upset Andromeda. _My aunt_ , she reminded herself. When Andromeda tilted her head slightly, Hermione continued. “I mean, is that why you offered to help Nar—my mother?”

Andromeda’s breath hitched and she blinked rapidly for a moment.

“Yes,” Andromeda agreed. “Cissy had always been protected and cossetted. She understood that it was dangerous in an academic sense, but she really had no idea what she was attempting to do. I know that Lucius kept most of his work for Voldemort from her even after they married. I think her innocence was a solace for him.”

“Surely she knew what they were doing,” Hermione protested. “How could she not be aware? Everyone knows what went on at revels!”

“I think she didn’t want to know,” Andromeda explained. “You must realize… as Pureblood girls, our world was very small. We only knew certain families. As children, we played together. We attended school together. These were boys that had pulled on her plaits at parties. These were boys who blushed and stumbled over themselves to ask her to Hogsmeade. These were her cousins and friends.”

“And she didn’t want to think badly of them,” Hermione guessed.

“I didn’t want to believe that Evan or Regulus would join,” Andromeda admitted. “I was older than all of them and they still seemed like boys to me. They used to beg me to steal biscuits from the kitchen at Yule parties. I cried when I saw Evan’s obituary in the _Daily Prophet_. Not for who he became, but for that little boy with the sweet smile.”

“I honestly can’t imagine that Draco was ever a sweet little boy who begged for biscuits,” Hermione muttered.

“Well,” Andromeda sighed. “He probably wasn’t. Unfortunately, as the paterfamilias, Abraxas would have dictated Draco’s early education, and it undoubtedly left its mark.”

The idea of Abraxas Malfoy, who from all reports was a _devoted_ follower of Voldemort, having such an important role in a young Draco’s life was frankly horrific. It took a minute for Hermione to absorb that knowledge, and wonder how that may or may not have affected her brother.

“Do you think he’s irredeemable?” Hermione asked gravely.

“I didn’t say that.” Andromeda shook her head. “I’m not trying to excuse him or apologize for him. I’m saying that… if you… if you want to build a relationship with Draco, it may be challenging and frustrating. He’s going to have to overcome years of prejudice and bigotry. There are things that he won’t even realize he needs to work on until you try to take him to see a Muggle movie or to a Muggle market.”

“You’re speaking from experience?” Hermione watched a dull flush color her aunt’s cheeks.

“I thought I was so much better than the rest of my family,” Andromeda said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, I had married a Muggleborn, for Merlin’s sake. We lived in a Muggle neighborhood. I spoke to my Muggle neighbours when I saw them on the street. I was so very, very progressive.”

“What happened?” Hermione asked.

“We took Nymphadora to a museum,” Andromeda replied. “The sort of thing that a lot of Muggle parents do. I found myself looking at the exhibits and thinking _they really are rather clever, for Muggles_. I was so embarrassed and angry with myself, but it wasn’t about me. It was supposed to be a fun day for Dora.”

“I see,” Hermione murmured and sat back in her chair.

If she chose to acknowledge the Malfoy family—if she was willing to let them be a part of her life—she would most likely have countless experiences like that. She would constantly have to educate, and probably reeducate her parents and her brother about their ingrained prejudices. It was exhausting, just thinking about it.

Would it even be worth it? Would creating a relationship with people who hated who and what she had been her entire life be worth the effort of dealing with their ignorance and casual prejudice?

“You should know that your mother loved you so much,” Andromeda said. She folded her hands in her lap just so, and Hermione wondered if that was a tell of some sort. “She… she was so determined to keep you safe, to protect you. She would have willingly died to make sure that Abraxas never got near you.”

What could Hermione say to that? She looked down and realized that her hands were folded in lap… just like her aunt’s. She sighed and closed her eyes.


	6. In Which Hermione Visits Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the Malfoy side of her family might be inevitable, but Hermione chooses to delay for just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Auntie_L who does her very best to keep me from hurting myself. 
> 
> Hermione is struggling with guilt over her *other* parents, the Grangers.

Never once had Hermione questioned her family’s circumstances. Her father’s family had been rather well-to-do, and they hadn’t approved of him becoming a dentist. Hermione wasn’t sure if he had been disowned or cut off, but there had never been Christmas or birthday cards from her father’s parents. Her parents had never really talked about it, and Hermione had never thought to wonder. 

Looking back on her childhood, she supposed that she had her mother’s family to thank for that… in more ways than one. Her grand-mère and her grand-père had always been such a central part of her childhood. She spent most of every summer with them as a child. Even once she’d begun to attend Hogwarts, she had gone to their home in Limoux in July. 

As a child, she’d loved her grandparents’ residence in Limoux. She had run and played throughout the grounds with a wild abandon that had always made grand-mère cluck her tongue reprovingly, and had always made grand-père smile and pat grand-mère on the hand. 

As an adult, she frowned at the expansive estate and wondered if it were a Black property. A dull tap-tap-tap alerted her to someone moving along the path behind her—mostly likely using a cane. Hermione took a deep breath and turned around. She wasn’t sure how to hold herself or what to do with her hands, so she ended up clasping them in front of her. 

“Bonjour, grand-mère,” she said stiffly. Her grandmother had always insisted that Hermione speak French in her home, and it had become an ingrained habit. Even in the privacy of her mind, she addressed her grandmother as ‘grand-mère.’

For a long, slow moment, her grand-mère looked her over. The formidable woman who had helped shaped the person that Hermione had become seemed to disappear. In her place was a fragile, old woman who watched her with sad eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she seemed to fold in on herself a little. 

“You know everything. I would apologize, but if we had not agree to do it, Andromeda would have found another family willing to take you in. It seemed… it seemed better that you at least be with us, even if you didn’t know what that really meant.” her grand-mère said French and sighed. She shook her head. “Have you spoken to your mother?” 

Hermione swallowed hard. “About that…,” she whispered in French. A tear slipped down her cheek. 

“What happened?” Her grand-mère asked with an ashen expression. “Is Elaine all right? Is… has something happened to Robert?” 

“I… I wanted to protect them,” Hermione whispered. “They were at risk because of me.”

“I take the papers,” Grand-mère sighed again. “The information from wizarding Britain was disjointed and filled with propaganda. There were times that Papa debated whether or not we should reach out to Andromeda, but… we feared putting you at greater risk, so we did not.” 

“Greater risk?” Hermione’s could feel a hysterical giggle escape her. “How could I possibly have been at a greater risk? They made wanted posters of me, Grand-mère!”

“Your brother,” Grand-mère whispered and then shook her head. “You must remember that my Papa was raised among them. When we learned that Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban—when we learned that Voldemort was living in Malfoy Manor—Papa got very drunk and all he could say was _that poor boy_ and _thank the gods our Hermione is safe_.”

“ _Safe_?” Another hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her chest. “I was starving in a tent in the dead of winter! I was tortured in my parents’ home, not that I knew that, of course— _in_ _front of my parents_ —I would hardly call any of that _safe_.”

“If Papa is correct, I expect that your brother was tortured in front of your parents, or at least in front of Narcissa as Lucius was in prison,” Grand-mère said in a gentle voice as she stroked Hermione’s hair. Hermione pulled back to stare up at her grandmother in horror. 

“You… you think Draco was tortured in Malfoy Manor?” She whispered. 

“According to Papa, it was very likely. He kept in touch with Andromeda, you know. Papa is very well aware of his family’s faults,” Grand-mère reminded her. “Now, what did you do to protect your _other_ set of parents?” 

Tears slipped down Hermione’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I just… I wanted to keep them safe. I had nightmares after the World Cup that the… the Muggles they tortured were Mum and Dad.” 

“I saw that in the papers as well,” Grand-mère sniffed derisively. She patted Hermione again. “What did you do, dear one?” 

“I didn’t know,” Hermione sobbed helplessly, begging for forgiveness. “I swear to you that I didn’t know. I… I cast a memory charm on them. I thought—if I could put them into some sort of magical witness protection scheme sort of thing, then maybe… maybe they would be safe.” 

“Hermione,” her grand-mère gasped. She gripped her cane handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Are they… what happened?” 

“They are… they are mostly fine. Except for the fact that they still do not remember me at all,” Hermione explained as carefully as she could. She swallowed hard. “We could have them transferred to St. Denis, and I could take you to go see them.” 

“Oh, Hermione,” Grand-mère sighed. 

“I’m sure they probably remember you,” Hermione offered hesitantly. She bit her lip and looked up at her grandmother anxiously. “If I had known, grand-mère, I would have brought them to you, and begged them to stay with you.” 

“That might have been better,” Grand-mère agreed. She looked out over the gardens for a moment and then looked at Hermione. “But we cannot change what has already happened. They are both well, you said?” 

“They are perfectly healthy,” Hermione rushed to assure her. “The Healers have been pleased with their overall recovery. I can Floo Healer Campbell and make arrangements to go to the Hospital if you wish?”

“You will do that,” her grand-mère agreed. “I will call your great-grandfather.” 

“He’s not really my great-grandfather though, is he?” Hermione said quietly. Another tear rolled down her cheek. “Mum and Dad don’t even know that I exist… and you…” 

“Nonsense,” her grand-mère said with a haughty sniff. “It has been a personal point of pride for him that _we_ had the raising of you. You are _ours_ , child.” 

With a sob, Hermione flung herself back into her grand-mère’s arms. 

“I’m so sorry, grand-mère,” Hermione cried. “If I had known—I never would have done it, I swear! I only wanted them to be safe. They didn’t understand that I—”

“That you had promised the Potter boy that you would stand beside him?” Grand-mère finished drily. She pulled back and looked down at Hermione with a mix of frustration and fondness. “That loyalty is a Black family trait, so I suppose it’s partially my fault, no?” 

“But now—” Hermione choked on another sob. “Mum and Dad have no idea who I am.” 

“Oh, Hermione,” Grand-mère sighed and patted her on the back. “The ones who love us never really leave us; you can always find them in here.” She tapped her chest and smiled sadly at Hermione. 

“Sirius said that once to Harry,” Hermione said through her sniffles. “He told me about it once.” 

“It is something that Papa told me when I was younger,” Grand-mère said with a shrug. 

Slowly, they made the long walk up the drive, and Hermione followed her grand-mère into the kitchen, where the only telephone in the entire house resided. No matter the passing of time, this place had always stayed the same. Hermione sat down at the large table and sagged in the chair. A quick conversation in rapid-fire French, and her grand-mère hung up the phone and smiled at her. 

“Papa is on his way,” She announced with a firm nod. 

It took Marius Black two hours to arrive in a gleaming Voisin Aérodyne that looked as though it belonged in a Poirot episode rather than in her grand-mère’s drive. A driver got out of the car and helped an elderly man out of the back. 

“Papa, you’re looking well,” grand-mère greeted him, bussing him on each cheek. 

“You look well, too, daughter,” Marius replied. He turned to Hermione and gave her a long, measured look. “And you are very angry with us, no?” 

“No sir,” she murmured. He stared at her, his sharp eyes tracking over her face. 

“You look like my sisters, Cassiopeia and Dorea,” he murmured. 

This man had been disowned, most likely at the tender age of eleven before the start of Hogwarts. What had that been like for him? Hermione swallowed hard as bile rose in her throat. She doubted that it had been pleasant, and she was fairly certain that it had left its own particular stamp on Marius Black’s personality. 

“Is that… is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” She asked politely. 

“It is the luck of the genetic draw, no?” He asked her with a slight smile. “One cannot help what one is given?” 

“No sir,” Hermione murmured, wondering if that was a subtle reference to the fact that _his_ luck of the draw hadn’t been particularly great. 

“We are to go to Australia, where we will meet with the doctors and see how Elaine and Robert are doing?” Marius turned to her grand-mère with a raised eyebrow for confirmation. 

“Yes, Papa,” she agreed. “We are leaving tomorrow. Hermione procured a portkey for us.” 

Marius grimaced. “I have managed to avoid portkeys for over 75 years. I suppose that it was inevitable that I would have to use one again someday.” 

“They aren’t my favorite either, sir,” Hermione offered with her own grimace. 

The next morning Hermione sat in her grand-mère’s morning room and sipped café au lait and nibbled half a baguette smeared with marmalade. Her grandmother and great-grandfather were eating their own breakfasts and occasionally asking her questions about her parents. Both sets. 

“Have you met with the Malfoys yet?” Her great-grandfather asked curiously. 

Hermione shook her head. “No, great-grandfather, I haven’t.”

A small frown flitted over his face and his spine stiffened. 

“They aren’t trying to deny you, are they?” He demanded. 

“No, sir. Rather the opposite. I just… I don’t know what to do with their eagerness to claim me,” Hermione explained quietly. “I’m not going to deny my mum and dad–even if they don’t know who I am. I can’t pretend as though the last eighteen years didn’t happen.” 

“No one is expecting you to do that, Hermione,” Grand-mère chided her gently. She frowned at her granddaughter. “This is a difficult time for all of you, and I am certain that the Malfoys will be understanding.” 

“You have never met Lucius Malfoy,” Hermine scoffed. 

“I met Basiledes Malfoy,” her great-grandfather said quietly. He shuddered and shook his head. “One hopes that the family has improved since then.” 

“Andromeda says… she says that Lucius was not as bad as Abraxas, but that he was bound by loyalty oaths to both Abraxas and Voldemort,” Hermione offered. 

“I will hope, for your sake, that our Cousin Andromeda is correct,” Grand-mère murmured and sipped at her café au lait. 

“Let us speak of more pleasant things,” her great-grandfather urged. “When do we need to take the portkey?” 

“In just a few minutes,” Hermione said after glancing at her watch. She neatly ate the last bite of her baguette and swallowed her café au lait. “Are you ready?” 

“I think we are as ready as we can be,” Grand-mère said with a firm nod. “Papa?” 

“Let us go see Elaine and Robert,” her great-grandfather agreed. 

Healer Campbell was waiting for them in the public portkey area. He nodded to Hermione and smiled. She ushered her grand-mère and great-grandfather forward. 

“It is nice to see you again, Miss Granger,” he greeted her. Then he paused and cocked his head. “Or are you going by Malfoy now?” 

“I…,” Hermione stopped, frozen for a moment. She hadn’t really considered going by anything other than the name she’d borne since she was a child. 

“Our Hermione is still using Granger,” her great-grandfather replied and patted Hermione’s arm. “Now, do you speak French? I’m afraid my daughter only speaks French and Italian.” 

“Erm,” Healer Campbell blinked at them both. “I do, actually. One of the reasons I was chosen was because Elaine has had a couple of episodes where she would only speak French and refused to speak English.” 

“Ah.” Her great-grandfather flushed. “That is probably my fault. I was angry when I was younger.” 

Grand-mère looked at them and made a displeased noise in her throat. 

“Français seulement, s’il vous plaît,” she snapped at them. 

“Pardonnez-nous, grand-mère,” Hermione replied automatically and then snapped her mouth shut, turning to stare at her great-grandfather. 

“This is the Healer who has been working with Elaine and Robert,” Her great-grandfather explained with a wave of his hand at Healer Campbell. “He speaks French, and he will be able to answer all of your questions about the children.” 

Quietly, Hermione trailed after her formidable grand-mère and her equally impressive great-grandfather as they peppered Healer Campbell with a series of questions in rapid-fire French. She hid a smile as Healer Campbell glanced back at her with wide eyes. 

There was a bright, sunny conservatory where a number of patients were sitting on benches or in wheelchairs, soaking up the sun or working on knitting or crossword puzzles. Seated together were her parents, Elaine and Robert Granger. Her mum was scowling at a crossword puzzle, and her dad was reading Agatha Christie. Mum looked up from her crossword puzzle and her eyes widened in surprise. 

“Maman!” She cried and stood up. “Grand-père! Que faites-vous ici?” 

“I heard that my only child was in a terrible accident,” Grand-mère huffed, repeating the bit of fiction that the hospital had created to ease the minds of Elaine and Robert Granger. “Where else would I be? Robert, dear, how are you?” 

“I am quite well, thank you, Madam,” Robert Granger replied carefully in his stilted French. 

“How did you get here?” Elaine fretted. “It’s such a long trip! Grand-père’s health is not the best.” 

“Do not worry about that, Elaine,” Grand-mère soothed her. “I had to come see you immediately, and of course your grand-père came with me.” 

“How are they doing?” Hermione quietly asked Healer Campbell. 

“Better,” he admitted. He paused and looked at her. “We could probably release them to your grandmother. She might need to hire a nurse to come live with them. I wouldn’t recommend that they be left alone. They’re doing well, but there are periods where they both become confused.” 

Hiring a nurse sounded expensive, but somehow, they would have to find a way to make it work. Perhaps they should sell the house in England. Surely that would be enough to pay for a live-in nurse. Hermione watched her parents interacting with her grandmother and worried.


	7. In Which Hermione Returns to London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has managed to make arrangements to take care of her parents. Now that they are settled in to her grand-mère's home in Limoux with a live-in nurse from St. Denis, Hermione can return back to wizarding Britain. She has a couple of surprises waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey out there. Here's hoping that you are safe and healthy. I'm still being careful--wearing my face mask in public, social distancing, avoiding large groups of people. I hope that you are in a safe place and that you have access to resources that you need. Big hugs from me to you. 
> 
> Auntie_L is such a treasure. I really, really adore her. If I ever get the chance to meet her irl I will probably embarrass myself in public.

Helping her grand-mère and her great grandfather bring home her mum and dad had been fairly simple with a little bit of magic. The hospital had arranged a special international Floo trip straight to St. Deni in Paris. Once there, St. Denis had arranged for a live-in nurse who had no issues being in a mostly magic-free environment. Because it was through St. Denis, Hermione was the guarantor. Signing all the paperwork had taken a while — partly because she felt vaguely guilty for signing everything as “Hermione Granger. Her accounts at Gringotts would cover the first month or two, but she was going to need to figure out something quickly.   
After all the paperwork was completed and Hermione had helped the nurse settle into the small suite next to her Mum and Dad’s room, Hermione was exhausted both physically and emotionally. She stayed one more night at her grand-mère’s place in Limoux. The next day she had returned to Paris and taken an international portkey to London. Her first stop was Grimmauld Place. She had barely stepped out of the Floo when Kreacher had flung himself at her, clutching her knees.  
“Kreacher’s Miss Hermione has returned!” Kreacher wailed theatrically.   
“Yes, of course, Kreacher,” Hermione said as soothingly as she could. “I just had to make some arrangements for my parents. I’ve only been gone for—”  
“You’ve been gone a week,” Harry interrupted her. He was leaning in the doorway and frowning at her. “Where the hell have you been, Hermione?”  
“France and Australia,” Hermione admitted. She bit her lip. “My mother’s family… they’re actually Squibs. I never knew. My great-grandad, or… the man I thought was my great-grandad is Marius Black.”  
“Kreacher’s Miss Hermione was with Young Master Marius?” Kreacher asked curiously.  
“He’s not as young as you might remember him,” Hermione cautioned Kreacher.   
“Why didn’t you send me a note?” Harry demanded. “I’ve been worried sick about you! Kreacher was worried about you.”   
“I’m so sorry.” Hermione took a deep breath and shook her head. “I didn’t know that my mother’s family were related to the Blacks. I just… I had no idea. Apparently, they kept all that a secret from my Mum. I was able to take them to the hospital in Australia, and we were able to bring my Mum and Dad to my grand-mère’s house. We just got them settled in with a nurse from St.   
Denis.”   
“No, I’m sorry,” Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He flushed. “I may have panicked a little bit.”   
“What do you mean, you panicked?” Hermione asked slowly.   
“I got a frantic Floo call at 3 am two days ago,” a cool voice drawled, and Draco poked his head into the room.   
Hermione blanched and stared at Draco for a moment before she swung her gaze to Harry’s face.   
“Harry!” Hermione hissed at him.   
“He made me promise not to tell Mother and Father,” Draco offered. He shrugged. “That was probably for the best. Father would have had a fit and ripped apart the wizarding world to find you.”   
“So, what… you’ve been here the entire time?” Hermione asked incredulously.   
“No, just the last two days,” Harry muttered and flushed.   
“And the house is still standing?” Hermione blinked and looked around, searching for signs of spell damage.   
“We were a little more focused on you,” Draco informed her and quirked a pale brow at her in silent judgment. Hermione pressed her lips together. He frowned at her then, his forehead furrowing. “What’s wrong with your… your other parents? Is it something we can help with? Father has contacts all over the world.”   
“I…” Hermione stared at Harry mutely.   
“He’s your brother, Hermione,” Harry said gently. Hermione couldn’t help the start of surprise at Harry’s words.   
The surprise must have been visible on her face. because Draco’s jaw tightened, and he averted his eyes. Guilt made her throat tighten and she moved to sit down in one of the chairs, Kreacher dogging her every step.   
“My parents are Muggles,” Hermione began. When a muscle jumped in Draco’s jaw, Hermione sighed. “I’ve spent my entire life thinking of them as my parents, Draco. That’s not going to change overnight.”  
“Nor should it,” Harry added firmly.   
“I didn’t say anything,” Draco muttered.   
“You didn’t have to,” Hermione countered drily. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “During the war, I was worried that they… that they would be at risk. So, I… I tried to protect them.”   
“How?” Draco asked quietly.   
“I used a memory charm I found in one of the books here,” Hermione admitted. She bit her lip and twisted her hands in her lap. “When I attempted to use the counter spell… I didn’t realize that Mum and Dad were already under another memory charm.”   
“Oh.” Draco’s voice was soft, and he was busy staring at his own hands when Hermione snuck a peek at him. He glanced up then, his silver-grey gaze catching hers. “I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine… I’m sorry, Hermione.”   
“The Australian magical Healers did their best for them, and they’ve improved quite a bit. They were able to release them to my grand-mère and my great-grandfather. I made arrangements with St. Denis to hire a medi-witch who has experience working with Squib and Muggle families,” Hermione explained with an air of determination that made both Draco and Harry watch her with almost matching expressions of concern.   
“A live-in medi-witch has to be expensive,” Harry observed with a frown. “Do you… Merlin, Hermione, you know that I’ll help you out however I can.”  
“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” Hermione said with a shake of her head. “I spoke to Grand-mère and we’ve decided to sell Mum and Dad’s townhouse here in London. It’s not like they’ll be able to live in it on their own any time soon.”   
Draco cleared his throat and Hermione turned to look at him. Pink stained his pale cheeks and the tips of his ears. He appeared flustered and worried at the same time, which was odd enough that Hermione found it unsettling.   
“What’s the matter with you, Malfoy?” Harry asked with a frown.   
“You should never sell real estate,” Draco said hesitantly, as though he expected her to yell at him. “It’s one of the first things that Fa—that our Father taught me.”   
“I can’t really help that, Draco,” Hermione pointed out.   
“You… erm… you have money,” He told her.   
“A little,” Hermione admitted. “Enough to last a couple of months, but Harry’s correct. A medi-witch isn’t cheap.”   
“No, I mean… fuck,” Draco swore and ran a hand through his hair. The blush that stained his cheeks grew darker. “Look, he was trying to do the right thing, okay? And that may be weird and fucked up, but, well, welcome to Pureblood Society,” Draco rambled anxiously.  
“What are you talking about?” Hermione demanded, utterly bewildered.   
“It’s… it’s a tradition,” Draco began slowly. He swallowed and rubbed his hand on the knees of his trousers. “As soon as Father found out that you… that you existed… he went to Gringotts and set up an account for you.”   
Silence grew thick in the library as Hermione tried to unpack that sentence. Her brain faltered somewhere in its ability to parse words and she shook her head helplessly.   
“What?” She rubbed at her temples and went through Draco’s disjointed rambling again. “What do you mean ‘as soon as he knew I existed’,” she demanded.   
“He didn’t,” Draco explained. “As the heir, he was bound to protect the Malfoy family. In addition to that, our grandfather forced him to take loyalty spells to both him, and to the Dark Lord. Mother couldn’t… she couldn’t tell him anything. His magical oaths would have forced him to confess everything to grandfather.”  
“And the very first thing he decided to do wasn’t to try and come see me, to talk to me, but to go open a bank account in my name?” Hermione scoffed.   
“I know that it’s…,” Draco groaned and tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s a Pureblood tradition. If he had known about you, there would have been a vault set up and ready to go the day you were born. It’s one of the first things a Pureblood father does for any witch born to the family.”  
“Before or after he holds his new-born baby in his arms?” Hermione asked drily.   
“Traditionally, the father is only allowed in after the first forty-eight hours,” Draco said quietly.   
“So, before,” Hermione muttered and grimaced.   
“I know this is… not how you were raised,” Draco said as tactfully as he could. “But don’t you see? You can help your… your other parents now. You don’t have to worry about selling their house. I mean… just in case they… they might need it again someday. Wouldn’t it be better if they could have it back again? Something familiar?”   
The hope that Draco held out so casually was like a punch to the gut. What if there was some way to eventually heal her parents’ minds? What if they could return to their townhouse in London someday? Hermione took a shuddering breath and then another. Harry moved quickly across the room to crouch by her chair.   
“It’s okay, love,” he murmured at her and took her hand. Hermione gripped his hand tightly. “Do you want to take a trip to Gringotts? Get everything set up for your parents?”   
“Yeah,” Hermione agreed and gave Harry a wobbly smile. He stood up, pulling her up with him. When she turned to face Draco, he got to his feet awkwardly. The muscle in his jaw was jumping again, and he avoided direct eye contact.   
“I should go,” he muttered. “You need to… I should go.”   
“Will you come with me?” Hermione blurted out.   
Startled, Draco’s gaze locked with hers. The uncertainty and hope that warred on his face made her stomach clench uncomfortably. She did not want to feel sympathy for Draco Malfoy. She was still working her way through six years of animosity and casual hatred. She was not ready for this.   
“Are you sure?” Draco asked hesitantly. His gaze darted to Harry and then focused back on her. “It probably would be better if you didn’t have me there. I mean, I’m sure someone will take a picture and it will end up in the Daily Prophet.”   
Hermione snorted and tossed her hair. “I don’t need you to garner the front page of the Daily Prophet,” Hermione informed him. “I can do that all by myself.”  
“Besides, thanks to our wartime activities, the goblins aren’t exactly fond of us,” Harry added.   
“We’ve made reparations with Gringotts,” Hermione hurried to assure him. “Harry, Ron, and I did the goblin equivalent of community service a couple of years ago.”   
“They still don’t like us,” Harry muttered.   
“They really don’t,” Hermione agreed. She sighed. “Come with me? Please?”   
It was easy to see the exact moment that Draco caved. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he rolled his eyes. Hermione allowed herself a smug smile and Harry laughed.   
Gringotts was just as Hermione expected it to be. The goblins watched every move that she and Harry made suspiciously. They seemed to ignore Draco for the most part. He followed Hermione as she made her way up to the counter.   
“Yes?” The goblin’s lip curled as he looked Hermione over.   
“Erm… yes.” Hermione paused and turned to Draco. “What do I do?”   
“She should have vaults that have been transferred to her from the Malfoy estate,” Draco explained to the goblin. “I believe that she is to be granted access under Hermione Granger or Hermione Malfoy.”   
The goblin’s lip curled even more, revealing razor-sharp teeth. It slid three keys across the counter. Hermione stared at them for a moment and then huffed at Draco, waiting for an explanation. He cleared his throat again and pointed at the keys in turn.   
“This first one is your personal trust vault, the one I was telling you about. This one is an inheritance vault. Our grandmother Malfoy wanted any granddaughter of hers to have independent means. It’s yours, no strings attached. This one…” Draco indicated the last key. “That’s the key to your dowry vault.”   
“My what?” Hermione’s voice rose and Harry shot her a warning look after he glanced around the bank.   
“It’s—” Draco began with a sigh.  
“If you say ‘tradition,’ I am going to punch you,” Hermione growled.   
Draco pressed his lips together and glared at Hermione.   
“Hermione, I’m the last person who wants to defend Malfoy, but he doesn’t have anything to do with this. I mean, aside from being your brother,” Harry observed. When Hermione turned her glare on to him, Harry just shrugged. “It’s true.”   
“Father informed me that he had set everything up for you after the fact,” Draco muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told him that it wasn’t a good idea. I told him that you wouldn’t understand, but did he listen to me? No, of course not.”   
The goblin tapped his sharp nails against the counter and Hermione jumped, turning to face him properly.   
“Do you have a preferred name for your correspondence from Gringotts?” The goblin demanded. “We have been accepting financial paperwork for both Hermione Malfoy and Hermione Granger, but we need a name to forward mail to.”   
“Oh.”   
If this conversation could be put off for the next fifty years, Hermione would be fine with that. She felt like Hermione Granger. That was who she had been her entire life. That was what had been on her Hogwarts Letter. That was what had been on her wanted poster during the war.   
“Hermione Granger, for now,” Draco answered for her. “If she decides to change it in the future, she’ll come to Gringotts and fill out the appropriate forms.”   
“Very well,” the goblin agreed.   
“I need to transfer funds to my original Gringotts vault,” Hermione said before he decided to dismiss her. “I’ve filled out paperwork with St. Denis and the Paris branch of Gringotts for direct payments.”   
“Very well,” the goblin agreed. “How much do you need to transfer?”   
Startled, Hermione turned to Draco.   
“How much is the monthly fee for a live-in nurse?” He asked quietly.   
“390 galleons per month,” Hermione whispered. Draco rolled his eyes.   
“Transfer 10,000 galleons to her original vault,” Draco said drily. Hermione bit her lip, worry in her dark eyes. Draco shook his head at her. “Wait until you get your first statement. It’s a drop in the bucket.”   
“How do you know?” Hermione asked.   
“Because my trust vault was opened with 100,000 galleons, and Father made regular deposits every year,” Draco informed her. “I have no doubt that he calculated what you ought to have had, and then threw a couple hundred thousand galleons on to that.”   
Hermione goggled at him and Draco sighed.   
“My trust vault is pretty ridiculous, too, Hermione,” Harry admitted. “The first time I got an actual statement I almost fainted.”   
“I suppose,” Hermione agreed reluctantly. “If it helps Mum and Dad, it’s worth it.”


	8. In Which Hermione Makes a Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione decides to reach out to her biological father. Harry is supportive, but cautious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might imagine, sitting down to write about Hermione dealing with her virulently racist birth family was... a struggle. Mostly because I wanted to make sure that I was treating the subject matter with the seriousness that it deserved. There are no easy answers. 
> 
> The whole point of this story was to examine and play with the pureblood!Hermione trope. I deliberately chose the Malfoys because they were Death Eaters and because they were still alive, which meant that Hermione could interact with them. [I've seen the pureblood!Hermione trope with conveniently dead parents, both Death Eaters and not.]
> 
> This really is meant to be a family drama sort of thing. I'm not focusing on pairings at all. I'm focusing on the complex and prickly relationships between Hermione and her family (yes, I include Harry as family). 
> 
> Auntie_L, you are amazing. Thank you so much for being you.

“You don’t have to do this, Hermione.” Harry’s voice was gentle and patient, the way it always was these days. He put his hand over hers. “You just got your Mum and Dad settled in France.”

Irritation flared within her and she turned to look at him. The messy hair that wouldn’t behave no matter what he did, rivalling her own ridiculous curls on some days. The warm concern for her in his brilliant green eyes. The beard that he’d grown a year after the Battle of Hogwarts was neatly trimmed and groomed. His worn Quidditch jersey was nowhere to be seen. Instead he was wearing an emerald green pullover that she didn’t recognize. Her lips tightened and her gaze narrowed.

“Can I ask you a question?” She was proud of the wobbly tone and the way her voice broke on the last word.

“Anything,” Harry promised her and pulled her in for a hug. Hermione hugged him tightly and then stepped back so that she could watch his face.

“You always encourage me to reach out to Draco,” Hermione said carefully.

“Of course,” Harry agreed immediately. “He’s your brother.”

“You usually mention that part, yes,” Hermione murmured. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, glancing down at the highly-polished leather shoes on Harry’s feet. “But whenever Lucius or Narcissa come up in the conversation, you always tell me that I can wait. That I shouldn’t feel pressured. That I should take time if I need it.” She dragged her eyes back up to Harry’s slightly flushed, guilty face. “Why is that?”

“Lucius Malfoy is not a good person,” Harry muttered and averted his eyes.

“And Draco is?” Hermione pressed, twisting the screws a little more. Harry’s ears turned red.

“He’s… he’s trying to be,” Harry said carefully.

“I see.” Hermione pressed her lips together straightened her shoulders, irritated that she felt she needed to defend her biological father. “One could argue that Lucius Malfoy hasn’t been given many chances to be a good man.”

“I suppose,” Harry agreed reluctantly. He frowned and scratched his head awkwardly. “I should probably come with you… to Malfoy Manor?”

“I’m not setting foot inside that house,” Hermione countered in a flat voice. Harry blinked at her, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“Oh.” He tugged at his sleeves. “Are you… are you inviting him _here_?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Hermione shook her head. “A public meeting doesn’t seem wise either. If I lose my temper, or if he loses his, it would be all over the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ before you could say Quidditch.”

“That’s true.” Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up all over his head. “What are you thinking?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know. What do you think about my parents’ house?” Hermione asked. “I could have the Floo connected to the network for a day. Or… does the Leaky Cauldron have conference rooms?” She groaned in frustration. “Why does this have to be so difficult?”

“What if you made him pick a place?” Harry suggested. “Nowhere public, not the Manor. Somewhere that you could have a conversation that’s neutral ground for the both of you. If anyone would know about somewhere like that in the wizarding world, it would be Lucius Malfoy.”

“Did you… did you just compliment my… biological father?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Not on purpose,” Harry muttered. He shrugged his shoulders. “They know the wizarding world better than we do.”

“They?” Hermione repeated. Harry scowled at her.

“Them,” he said flatly. “The Malfoys. Your parents.”

“I suppose they do,” Hermione allowed. She poked Harry in the shoulder. “We will soon enough.”

“But it won’t count, will it?” Harry mused with a vaguely worried frown. “I’m a Potter. You’re a Malfoy. In a few years, people won’t remember how hard we’ve had to work for everything. They’ll just point at us and say that of course we know because we’re from wizarding families.”

“They probably will,” Hermione agreed with a sigh. Harry had a brilliant mind that made incredible leaps—when he let himself. “Unless we do something to change all of it.”

“Like what?” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her. “Stage a revolution?”

“Something like that,” Hermione agreed easily. She smiled, showing all her teeth.

“I hate it when you do that,” Harry muttered at her. “Bloody scary, you are.”

“Shut up,” Hermione huffed at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m going to have to do this his way, for now.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“Kreacher?” Hermione called hesitantly.

“What is Kreacher’s Miss Hermione needing?” Kreacher appeared next to Hermione and looked up at her eagerly.

“Is there any stationery that I can use?” Hermione asked. She frowned and bit her lower lip. “If there isn’t, that’s fine. I mean… I doubt Sirius was using formal stationery. And I imagine that erm, _before,_ there wasn’t much call for that sort of thing.”

“Wait, Kreacher’s Miss Hermione,” Kreacher said firmly. He popped out and then popped back with a box clutched in his arms. He held it out to her. “Miss Lycoris’ stationery.”

“Miss Lycoris,” Hermione repeated and glanced at Harry.

“She’s on the tapestry,” Harry said with a shrug. “On Orion’s side, I think.”

“Thank you very much, Kreacher,” Hermione said with a smile. “This is extremely helpful.”

“Anything for Kreacher’s Miss Hermione,” Kreacher practically cooed at her before he popped out of the room.

“He’s gotten better?” Harry offered helplessly when Hermione winced.

“He seems to be.” Hermione sighed again and rubbed a hand over her face. “It’s just that they all have these expectations of me now.”

“Who does?” Harry asked with a small frown.

“The Malfoys, my aunt Andromeda, my grand-mère, my great-grandfather,” Hermione listed them all off. She waved a hand at the door to the library. “Even your House Elf.”

Harry snorted at that. “I think that Kreacher has decided that he’s _your_ House Elf,” he muttered.

“The only reason that he wants anything to do with me is because my mother was born a Black,” Hermione scoffed. She bit her lip and stared at Harry. “Do they really want _me_? I’m not going to be some perfect little Pureblood princess for them. I’m still me.”

“A perfect little princess,” Harry repeated, his eyebrows raised. “What, like Pansy Parkinson? Or like Luna Lovegood? Or like Susan Bones?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione huffed at him. “Like… some kind of feminine version of Draco.”

“Well you’re certainly not pale and pointy,” Harry pointed out with a smirk. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“Ha ha, Potter,” she snapped. “Very funny.”

“Wait a minute, you’re starting to _sound_ like him,” Harry teased her gently. He snickered and Hermione poked him in the ribs. “You should tell me that your father’s going to hear about this.”

“Harry!” Hermione scowled at him and swatted him on the shoulder. “I think that being stuck in this house with Walburga Black’s portrait and long-term exposure to the Horcrux affected Kreacher,” Hermione sighed. “And… I just… it’s my family’s fault he’s like that.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with any of this,” Harry protested, waving a hand at Grimmauld Place. “I mean… you didn’t even _know_ that you were related to them until a couple of months ago.”

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t have a responsibility to make this right, Harry,” Hermione snapped. She waved a hand around her. “The Blacks and the Malfoys helped Riddle. They were _happy_ to try and destroy our world. They have allowed the degradation and the oppression of Centaurs, Goblins, House Elves, and Muggleborns because it was convenient—because they profited from it.”

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry muttered. “I don’t know if Lucius Malfoy is ready for you.”

“Probably not,” Hermione said grimly. She set the box of stationery down on a side table. “But we don’t have time to wait for him to be ready.”

“We?” Harry echoed. He looked at Hermione, both eyebrows raised in silent question.

“Yes, we,” Hermione repeated. She smirked at him. “You’re helping me with the revolution, remember?”

“Right. The revolution.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just going to… do you want a cup of tea?”

“Tea sounds lovely,” Hermione murmured. When Harry was almost out of the room, Hermione called after him, “Tell Draco I said hello!”

The box in front of her was a faded green. When she lifted the lid, the faint scent of lavender drifted up to her. Neat compartments held each item. The largest was a stack of bone-white paper with a delicate filigree border in black. Matching envelopes were stacked in their own slot, and the last two slots held sticks of black wax and a seal that bore the coat of arms for the House of Black.

Carefully, she pulled out a couple of sheets of the paper. Tucked next to the paper, she found a beautiful fountain pen. It was quick work to change out the ink. The pen felt heavy in her hand as she stared at the blank pages in front of her.

What should she say? She swallowed and pressed the nib to the paper.

 _Dear_ —

Hermione lifted the nib from the page and stared unseeing at the coffee table.

Dear _what_? Mr. Malfoy felt too formal. ‘Dear Sir’ seemed a little ridiculous if she were honest. ‘Lucius’ just felt… _wrong_. Hermione had not been raised in the sorts of houses where one called one’s parents by their first names, and it made her anxious to even think of doing so. ‘Dad’ felt equally wrong. Lucius Malfoy was not her Dad. He might be partially responsible for her existence, but he certainly did not deserve to be called Dad.

With a groan, Hermione set the nib back on the sheet of stationery. She huffed a little and carefully wrote _Father_. Becoming more like Draco, Indeed. Harry could be such a git sometimes.

_I apologize for not writing to you sooner, but familial obligations have kept me busy until now. I hope that this letter finds you and Mother doing well. It occurs to me that we might be best served by meeting and discussing our circumstances. A dear friend suggested that you might know of a public place that we might use for such a meeting._

_Please advise me as to your schedule and the proposed location for our meeting._

_Regards,_

_Hermione_

Perhaps it was cheating to avoid using a last name, but Hermione wanted Lucius Malfoy to come to this meeting. She _needed_ his help, as annoying as that might be, and she was unwilling to anger him before they even sat down at the same table. Later, she would reevaluate whether allowing Lucius Malfoy into her life was something that she could continue to endure, but that would be up to him.

* * *

Owls were a normal part of one’s life when one was a wizard. The tawny owl in front of him was a general delivery owl. It bore no one’s crest. He carefully took the letter from the owl and gave it a piece of sausage. The envelope was hauntingly familiar. Lucius hadn’t seen stationery from the House of Black in years. He flipped the envelope over and stared at the coat of arms for the House of Black that sealed his letter with black wax. Lucius swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Finding out that he had a daughter had been a shock. It had taken him time to work through his feelings. Lucius was aware that he had not been… kind or patient with his wife. Narcissa’s intransigence had not helped matters. Her stubborn refusal to apologize was infuriating. He supposed that this letter was only to be expected. The next salvo in her efforts to drive him utterly mad. He was glad that he was alone, so that no one else could see his hands shake as he broke the seal.

Divorce wasn’t the done thing among their set. He’d known couples that _hated_ one another—they merely lived in separate homes and avoided all possible contact with one another. More often were the couples that were indifferent to one another. They may like their partner well enough. They were able to conceive an heir for the line, a spare if they were lucky, and then they left one another alone.

Lucius Malfoy had always considered himself a lucky man. He had loved his wife and their marriage had been a harmonious partnership for over twenty years. Discovering that his wife had been keeping secrets—had kept his child from him—had shattered his entire world view. He knew that their relationship had been strained to the breaking point, but he had never considered that Narcissa might take this step. Not once had he expected her to leave him.

For several long minutes he stared at the words _Dear Father_. This was not a letter from his wife, informing him of their formal separation. This was not a letter from his wife at all. His fingers tightened on the pages and they crinkled in his fingers. His daughter had a lovely hand. Her penmanship was as nice as Draco’s, which probably shouldn’t surprise him so much, and yet it did. He hadn’t expected it. The letter itself was polite, but distant, which made sense.

“A public place,” Lucius murmured as he read the letter through once more. He sat back and stared at the far wall. “A public place.”

It was a Slytherin sort of request and Lucius smiled fondly at the letter in front of him. He knew the lineage tests were accurate, but he also knew that Hermione Granger had been raised by Muggles. His few interactions with her had only emphasized her Muggle-ness. This letter was the sort of thing that he would expect Draco to write to someone. The subtle phrasing was rather well-done.

Finding her a public place would be a challenge, but one that he was happy to undertake on behalf of his… his _daughter_.


	9. In Which Hermione and Lucius Have a Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius was able to secure a semi-public place in which to meet his daughter, officially. Hermione is pleasantly surprised by the solution. Will the meeting be what all parties hoped for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a rough two months. I have been in a not-good place mentally and creatively. Thank Merlin for amazing people in the fandom. I've had a couple people who were suspicious of the fact that I managed to keep my mouth shut on social media, and reached out. You know who you are and you're amazing. Thank you for being a part of this fandom and being you. 
> 
> The cherry on the top of my fml sundae is that my grandpop passed away last Sunday. He was 94, hardcore old-school, tougher than nails and more ornery and stubborn than any one man had a right to be. I adored him and I think it still hasn't sunk in yet. Because of his underlying health conditions--we haven't seen my grandparents since March. So it's even harder because it doesn't even feel real. 
> 
> It was *hard* to write family drama when I'm struggling through my own convoluted family feelings. 
> 
> As always, Auntie_L is pure and good and amazing. I'm so lucky that she's willing to deal with me on a regular basis.

Apparently, Claridge’s was discreetly divided into two distinct hotels—one serving disgustingly wealthy Muggles and one serving disgustingly wealthy wizarding folk. They had small conference rooms that they were willing to book for clients. It was public enough that Hermione felt safe and private enough that her personal business wouldn’t end up on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Or at least not any more than usual.

The caveat was that one needed to both _know_ about Claridge’s magical side, _and_ be disgustingly wealthy enough to pay the rental fees, so Hermione Granger with her meagre bank account wouldn’t have had the ability to make such a request. Hermione _Malfoy_ could, certainly, and that was a point that Hermione planned to remember.

Semi-private conference rooms would probably come in handy for a revolution. It felt like quite a step up from the Hog’s Head Inn. _That_ had been far too public, and Hermione had been in a constant state of worry about Umbridge and Ministry spies during Harry’s initial D.A. meeting. This… this was something she could work with easily. She made a mental note to speak to the front desk staff to discuss rates, available dates, and other fine points at a later time.

Deciding who should attend the meeting was not as easy as one might have supposed. Harry seemed like a given, but was he? What did Hermione want from this meeting? What did she want from her father?

Worry sent her to seek the counsel of her great-grandfather and her grand-mère. After a long afternoon of arguing back and forth, Hermione finally came to a decision. Marius would attend the meeting with her. He coached her on all of the pureblood nuances and what they would mean. To be honest, it was a lot like a formal luncheon with grand-mère—all stiff manners and cool politeness and careful, stilted speech. Hermione could do that easily. Lucius Malfoy didn’t have anything on her grand-mère.

It was a conscious decision to dress Muggle, but she kept it formal, as a nod to the import of this meeting. Her mother had owned a couple of designer dresses that she wore to special occasions, and it was simple to perform a tailoring charm on one of them. Hermione left her hair down, loose and wild. Her great-grandfather wore a perfectly tailored bespoke suit. She crammed Harry into the navy suit that they had purchased for him at Selfridge’s after the War. There had been a lot of funerals, and Harry had gone to most of them.

All of grand-mère’s lessons came rushing back. Hermione’s spine was ramrod straight, her ankles crossed neatly, her chin lifted imperiously when Lucius Malfoy walked into the conference room. Her great-grandfather rose to his feet and Harry copied him, just as they had reminded him to do.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Hermione said and then hesitated for a long moment as she considered her options. “Father,” she added.

“Of course,” Lucius replied. He paused, waiting patiently.

“This is Marius Black, my great-grandfather. Great-grandfather, this is Lucius Malfoy, my… father,” Hermione began introducing them. Calling Lucius her father did not get any easier. No matter how often she said it, it still felt awkward and strange on her tongue. “And you remember Harry, of course.”

“Mr. Black,” Lucius murmured and bowed politely toward Hermione’s great-grandfather. His brows furrowed and his lips twitched into a not-quite frown. “Mr. Potter.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Great-grandfather murmured and bowed back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Harry parroted her great-grandfather. He made a sketchy bow, but chose not to lie through his teeth about how good it was to see Lucius again.

Hermione was willing to take what she could get. She smiled at everyone as they settled in their seats, and then focused on Lucius. On her father. No, it was still awkward and strange and unsettling.

“How may I help you, Hermione?” Lucius asked. His head was tilted, and he was watching her cautiously.

 _What do you want from me?_ Hermione read it in the line of his shoulders and in the hand clenched on the table. She let her shoulders relax. This was a meeting between two strangers. It wasn’t a business meeting or a job interview or anything else. It was… well, it was like nothing else she’d ever done in her life.

“Draco wants you to forgive Narcissa,” Hermione stated calmly. She was sure that he had to know that already. This wasn’t a surprise. This wasn’t news. She bit her lower lip for a moment before she continued. “He didn’t ask me to do this. I rather think he’s terrified of you and I being in the same room together.”

Lucius’ lips pressed into a thin line and he refused to look at her great-grandfather or Harry.

“Do _you_ want me to forgive Narcissa?” Lucius asked with cold civility.

“Whether or not you are able to forgive your wife doesn’t affect me,” Hermione explained with her own cold civility. “I don’t know either one of you. I have no feelings of safety or security tied up in your relationship. I’m merely stating that my brother has expressed his concerns.”

“So, this is for Draco.” Lucius seemed pleased with that possibility.

“It is merely one of the factors for this meeting,” Hermione amended. She refused to let him think that this meeting represented some monumental breakthrough in her relationship with her brother.

“And the other factors?” Lucius probed.

“My parents.” Hermione watched the hand that was on the table tighten into a fist and sighed inwardly. “My mum and dad are dealing with spell damage. The magical hospital in Australia could only do so much, and St. Joan’s agreed with them after they did their own assessment. They… they don’t remember me at all.”

“I see.” Lucius’ hand had relaxed slightly.

“Draco suggested that you might be able to help. That your connections might help me find Healers that specialize in memory spells,” Hermione prompted him.

“Most of my connections are social, political, or business, but I will see if anyone can suggest a Healer,” Lucius said after a moment. His lips pressed together. “Perhaps a specialist.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Hermione admitted.

“And the other factors?” Lucius asked curiously, watching her with silver-grey eyes that reminded her of her brother.

“It would be good to know you a little better,” Hermione replied. At least, everyone around her seemed to think that it would be a good idea. She glanced at her great-grandfather for a moment and then refocused on Lucius. “I’ve had limited interaction with you up to this point, and those interactions didn’t paint you in the best light.”

A small frown flitted over Lucius’ lips and his brows furrowed.

“I suppose that might have been so, before,” Lucius said slowly, his facial expressions and body language speaking to his confusion. “But of course, it’s different now.”

“Is it?” Hermione blinked at that.

The first time that she had ever seen Lucius Malfoy she had been almost thirteen—just weeks shy of her birthday. She hadn’t _met_ him, of course. Someone like him would never allow someone like her into their social circle. It had been an experience that left her shaking with a mix of rage, fear, and a burning sense of injustice. Mum and Dad had even talked about pulling her out of Hogwarts. It had taken a phone call from grand-mère to put that idea to rest.

At almost fifteen, Lucius Malfoy’s arrogance and bigotry had been even more evident, and Hermione had vainly attempted to hide in a sea of Weasleys. It was the first time that she had ever seen her mother, not that she had known it at the time. The sleekly elegant witch had done her best to ignore their very existence while Lucius and Draco had taunted Harry and the Weasley family.

Perhaps she should have felt grateful, to be ignored while the Malfoy men were after blood, but instead, she had been left with the sick feeling that she wasn’t _worth_ their effort. She hadn’t even registered as a _person_ to someone like Lucius Malfoy. Draco certainly had never treated her as though she mattered.

No one needed to tell her that Lucius Malfoy was one of the wizards marching around in Death Eater garb as the attendees of the World Cup ran screaming. She had known exactly what sort of wizard would be drawn to the Dark Mark. She had despised him then, for his prejudice and his casual hatred of anyone like her.

At sixteen, she had been terrified of Lucius Malfoy. He represented a very real segment of wizarding society—a segment that saw her as filth, that preferred her death to her continued existence. She had seen the desperation in his speeches and fear had clutched at her chest. What sort of wizard was Voldemort, if he frightened monsters like Malfoy?

“Of course,” Lucius said with a self-assurance that Hermione was unable to share.

“Do you… have you changed your outlook on Muggle-borns?” Hermione asked cautiously.

“What do Muggle-borns have to do with anything?” Lucius countered, the furrow between his brows deepening.

“ _I_ am a Muggle-born,” Hermione said automatically. It had so long been a part of who she was—of how she identified herself in relation to the world around her—that the words fell off of her tongue without thought. Lucius scoffed and tossed his head.

“ _You_ are the only daughter of two of the most noble magical Houses in all of Europe,” Lucius countered. “You are a pureblood among purebloods.”

“A diamond of the first water?” Hermione asked drily, years of sneaking Mum’s trashy romance novels still influencing her years later.

“Well… yes,” Lucius agreed. “You’re one of us, Hermione. Blood will tell, after all.” 

“No,” Hermione countered with flashing eyes and a raised chin. “It really doesn’t. If blood had anything to do with anything, then I would be as crazed as Bellatrix or Walburga or…” Hermione’s jaw snapped shut and she refused to look at Harry.

“You’re not wrong,” Harry sighed quietly next to her. “Azkaban certainly didn’t help, but… you’re not wrong.”

Hermione snorted and tossed her hair. “Walburga never went to Azkaban and she was just as awful as Bellatrix was.”

“True,” Harry huffed in agreement. Hermione wrinkled her nose at Harry in solidarity at Walburga’s continued existence, even if it’s only in portrait form.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Lucius snapped.

“What did you mean, then?” Hermione’s voice grew sharp and she tensed. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper with this man who was also her father. Not yet. Not while he might prove useful, at least.

“You can’t help how you were raised,” Lucius said stiffly. He waved a hand at her. “Now that you’re among your own kind, you can learn the proper way of doing things.”

“What way would that be, Father?” Hermione countered coldly. “Torturing school children because they weren’t raised in a magical household?”

“No, of course not,” Lucius sputtered, two spots of pink appearing high on his cheeks.

“Maybe you could show me the correct way to kick a House Elf,” Hermione continued viciously.

“No!” Lucius’ voice rose and his pale skin turned blotchy with rage. “I meant that we could help give a little polish. Help smooth away the rough edges. Help you to navigate society without embarrassing yourself.”

“My rough edges don’t need to be smoothed away,” Hermione snarled, moving to stand. “Thanks to people like _you_ , people like that bastard Dolohov, I’ve sharpened my rough edges, _Father_.”

“Hermione.” Great-grandfather carefully stood, leaning heavily on his cane. He patted her shoulder soothingly and spoke in French. “Do not let him upset you. He’s only repeating what he was taught.”

“So, he’s just ignorant?” Hermione demanded in French.

“I am not _ignorant_ ,” Lucius bit out between clenched teeth in English. Hermione snorted and her great-grandfather made a scoffing noise in his throat.

“Every time you open your mouth, you dig a deeper hole,” Hermione raged helplessly. “I expected you to be… well, I knew what you were before I came here today. I knew and I came anyway. What does that really say about me?”

“That you’re optimistic?” Harry offered from his seat. He glanced at Lucius and his upper lip curled.

“Being Muggle-born isn’t anything to be embarrassed about,” Hermione said to Lucius. She lifted her chin imperiously, sneering at Lucius. “I’m _proud_ that I was raised Muggle. I’m grateful to grand-mère and great-grandfather for making sure that I had a solid foundation for my childhood.”

“Your childhood put you at risk,” Lucius protested. “You were tortured because people believed the lie your mother created.”

“That’s not _her_ fault,” Hermione hissed furiously. “It’s not my Muggle parents’ fault! It’s not the fault of the people being oppressed for being oppressed, you lackwit! It’s the people who torture schoolchildren who are responsible—not the gods-bedamned schoolchildren!”

Shaking with rage, Hermione jerked to her feet. Automatically, her hand snapped to her holster and she grabbed her wand.

“Hermione,” Harry said slowly, cautiously. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to her. “Let go of your wand, love. We’re in the middle of Claridge’s.”

“Just a tiny spell,” Hermione countered. Her gaze narrowed on her father. “Maybe an _avis oppugno_?”

“Ron still has the scars, Hermione,” Harry reminded her.

“That might be so, but he learned his lesson,” Hermione snapped in a low voice.

“Granddaughter, this won’t serve you,” her great-grandfather warned her in French, his gaze flicking from Lucius to her. Reluctantly, Hermione turned to look at him.

“No, it probably won’t,” Hermione agreed, answering in the same language. She lifted her chin defiantly. “But I don’t really care, Great-grandfather.”

“You do,” Great-grandfather continued in French. “You care about what happens to Elaine and Robert. You care about the Muggle-born children that will be entering this world. You even care about the wizarding world.”

Hermione took a deep shuddering breath and then another. Emboldened, Harry moved closer and put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder, gently pressing down, grounding her. She turned to him completely and buried her face in his chest. 

“You will help your daughter, will you not, Mr Malfoy?” Great-grandfather asked in a cool voice. Lucius Malfoy had already proven that he understood French perfectly well.

“Of course,” Lucius snapped in English. “I will do whatever I—,” He paused and turned to frown at Hermione. “I will do my best to assist your foster parents,” he told her.

“I am grateful for your offer of assistance,” Hermione replied and gave him a stiff nod.

“Hermione,” Lucius sighed. “I wanted this meeting to go differently,” he whispered.

“What on earth did you expect?” Hermione demanded incredulously. She pulled away from Harry and her great-grandfather and put her hands on the conference table, leaning forward. “Did you suppose that I would be so fucking _thrilled_ to find out that I was a perfect little pureblood princess that I would run into your arms? Did you think that I would be fucking _grateful_ to know that I was a member of the illustrious House of Malfoy? Did you expect me to bow down and kiss your robes in happiness?”

“No, of course not. I—” Lucius began only to stop when Hermione stabbed a finger in his direction.

“I’ve spent the last decade in this world,” Hermione snarled at him. “I know exactly what you, what your _ilk_ think of me—I heard it enough at Hogwarts. Mudblood,” she spat the word at him. Lucius twitched at her vitriol.

“Hermione,” Harry protested.

“I’m as Muggle as they come, and I’m _proud_ to be the daughter of Elaine and Robert Granger,” Hermione declared. Her gaze raked over Lucius Malfoy scathingly. “Far better to be the daughter of Muggles than the daughter of a bigoted prick.”

“ _Hermione_.” Great-grandfather’s voice was heavy with disappointment.

“I’m done,” Hermione snapped. She spun on her heel and tossed her hair before she marched out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her.


	10. In Which Draco and Hermione Strike an Accord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione plots and Draco helps. Harry is asked questions that surprise him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal Note: There's really no easy way to say this... my grams (grandpop's widow) passed away the last week of October. The hospital allowed us in, under strict protocols, to say good-bye to her. For whatever reason, my grandmother's death hit me harder than Grandpop's. Maybe because we actually got to see her? Maybe because our relationship had been strained, prior to COVID? So... yeah. 
> 
> Authorial Note: Auntie_L, who is an utter and complete angel, beta'd this chapter for me. Any mistakes are, of course, my fault because she is all that is perfection.

**_Chapter 10-_** In Which Draco and Hermione Strike an Accord

When Hermione stumbled down to the kitchen the next morning, Draco was already sitting at the kitchen table, poking morosely at the plate of food in front of him. He looked up as Hermione entered the room and his shoulders slumped.

“So,” he began slowly, drawing the word out. “You met with Father.” His lips pressed together tightly. “It did not go well.”

“Harry told you,” Hermione sighed. A delicate flush spread over Draco’s pale cheeks. “It’s fine, Draco. I rather expected he would. You two are as thick as thieves lately. No, it did not go well.”

The flush grew darker.

“You’re my sister,” Draco said flatly. “I’m not… I want to get to know you. I want this to work.” He poked at his eggs with his fork. “If our parents can manage not to fuck it all up.”

Carefully, Hermione sat down next to Draco. She watched him tear a slice of toast into small pieces and reached out to put her hand on his. He stilled completely, and she stared at her lap.

“Whatever my relationship is with… with _them_ , has no bearing on my relationship with you,” Hermione said quietly. “We will make our mistakes and have our own fights, I’m sure. I suppose I could have kept my temper better.”

“Maybe,” Draco muttered and rolled his eyes. “But you forget that I grew up with him, and I went to school with you. I know exactly what Father is like and I know exactly what you are like. I knew this would be… how is this going to work, Hermione? How can you promise that our relationship won’t be strained because Father is… Father?”

“Harry’s family is utterly wretched. We just avoid them at all costs,” Hermione said with a little shrug.

“Dudley’s not bad,” Harry offered as he walked into the kitchen. He dropped a kiss on the top of Hermione’s head and moved to the cooling cabinet. “You want anything, love?”

“Just tea and toast,” Hermione muttered. Harry turned to frown at her and she frowned back at him. “I didn’t sleep well,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Because of Father,” Draco guessed.

“Because of everything, really,” Hermione countered. She turned her seat to face Draco and gave him a falsely bright smile. “What was your education like before you went to Hogwarts?”

“Private tutors,” Draco replied automatically, blinking at the sudden change in Hermione’s temperament. “Grandmother Black taught me to play the violin and the piano passably. Grandfather Malfoy allowed Father to give me lessons in estate management. Mother taught me German and Italian.”

“Sounds swell,” Harry muttered from inside the cooling cabinet.

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Hermione murmured. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Your lot don’t really have anything like Hogwarts for younger children?”

“No one would be willing to let their child leave home that early,” Draco said with a shake of his head.

“I meant more of a day school that children might attend to prepare them for Hogwarts,” Hermione explained. Draco stared at her for a long moment.

“No, we have nothing like that,” he replied.

“Interesting,” Hermione murmured. She glanced at Harry. “I’m going to assume that you did not attend a pre-preparatory school before Hogwarts.”

Harry snorted and put the kettle on. “Merlin, no. Can you imagine the Dursleys forking it over for me to attend Ludgrove?”

A flush spread over Hermione’s cheeks. Draco turned to look at Harry, who was smirking at Hermione.

“What is it?” Draco asked.

“Go on then,” Harry said and crossed his arms over his chest. “Where did you go?”

“Godstowe,” Hermione muttered. Harry’s eyebrows flew up.

“I was joking,” he sputtered.

“What does that mean?” Draco demanded impatiently.

“Godstowe is a school that prepares students to attend some of the finest public schools in the UK,” Hermione explained.

“It’s one of the best,” Harry added, eyeing Hermione thoughtfully. “Hideously expensive. Very posh. You never mentioned it.”

“No one at Hogwarts would have known what it was,” Hermione huffed at him.

“Finch-Fletchley would have known,” Harry retorted. “That’s an Eton sort of name if ever there was one.”

“His father went,” Hermione agreed. “They weren’t well-pleased to have Justin be the first Finch-Fletchley in five hundred years not to attend.”

“Speak to _Justin_ often, do you?” Harry teased Hermione.

“I reached out to as many Muggleborn students as I could, after the war,” Hermione said quietly. “I wanted to know how many of us… I needed to know.”

The smile slipped from Harry’s face. “Hermione,” he whispered.

“Later, when I knew what I wanted to do, I asked them what their pre-Hogwarts education had been like,” Hermione continued, avoiding eye contact with both Draco and Harry. “I’ve asked as many people as I could, actually. Did you know that the Weasley family’s situation was fairly unusual, even for poorer pureblood families?”

“Unusual in what way?” Harry asked curiously.

“Mrs. Weasley taught all of her children by herself,” Hermione reminded him. Draco’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Truly?” Draco asked. Hermione nodded.

“How is that unusual?” Harry looked from Draco to Hermione.

“Most wizarding families are like the Malfoy family, even if they are poor or without influence, they are related to a number of other families. Many parents will ask an aunt, an uncle, or a grandparent to help tutor in their specific field,” Hermione explained. “They’re all so intertwined that even half-blood families can ask for help among their extended relatives.”

“I took lessons from my grandmother Black with Vince when we were small,” Draco offered. When Hermione and Harry both looked at him, he elaborated, “Her maiden name was Crabbe.”

“That was my understanding as well,” Hermione said with a nod. “There will be one relative giving specific lessons to a number of children.”

“What is it that you want to do, Hermione?” Harry asked bluntly.

“I’m going to convince Draco to help me find the largest, most ridiculous piece of property we own, and we’re going to turn it into a day school that will prepare children for Hogwarts,” Hermione explained. She frowned at Draco. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Hermione,” Draco said slowly. He paused and stared at her with an unreadable expression.

“Draco?” She prompted him.

“You do realize that it will be impossible to convince purebloods to allow their children to go this day school,” Draco pointed out. “Change moves slowly in the wizarding world and even slower in pureblood circles.”

“We won’t be targeting pureblood students,” Hermione said with a slight smirk. She glanced at Harry. “We’re going to recruit heavily among Muggleborn and half-blood families.”

“Because they’ll understand what a pre-preparatory school is,” Harry murmured, nodding to himself.

“I know that the Obliviation Squads work mostly with small children and accidental magic,” Hermione stated.

“And the occasional issue when there’s a large-scale event like the World Cup,” Draco added. Hermione shrugged.

“True, but I’m focusing on the accidental magic. What if we didn’t Obliviate the parents or the child? What if we brought them in to the magical world early?” Hermione suggested, her eyes shining with excitement. “What if we taught them basic wizarding culture and got them started on Latin, in addition to their primary classes?”

“You’ll need to offer dancing and music if you want them to fit in,” Draco offered.

“Intra-mural Quidditch,” Harry said with a grin at Draco.

“Yes, yes, all of that can be figured out once we have a plan and a building,” Hermione huffed, waving her hands at both wizards. She turned her attention to Draco. “Do the magical children and the parents _have_ to be Obliviated? Is it wizarding law?”

“Not exactly,” Draco said thoughtfully. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment while he thought. “The Statute of Secrecy merely says that we need to keep the secret of magic. The Obliviation Squads were the Ministry of Magic’s answer to that.”

“So it might be possible to have the Obliviation Squads give them a little speech and hand out pamphlets for our school rather than Obliviate everyone?” Hermione pressed eagerly.

“I… yeah,” Draco agreed after a moment. He glanced at Harry and frowned. “You’d have to get them to agree to it. Who’s the director of the Obliviator Headquarters right now?”

“One of yours,” Harry replied. He rubbed at his chin. “Pucey, I think?”

“Oh for the love of… it’s Terrence Higgs, Draco,” Hermione huffed.

“Higgs was alright,” Draco allowed. He sat back in his chair and stared at the pile of toast pieces on his plate. “He wasn’t… I think he’d work with you.”

“But would he work with _you_?” Hermione asked carefully. She tilted her head, considering Draco for a moment. “Are you willing to help me this much?”

“What… backdoor dealings and handshake agreements and whatnot?” Draco countered, raising one pale blond brow. Hermione nodded and he smirked at her. “You are _such_ a Malfoy.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose in displeasure. “It isn’t as though there is anyway to do what we need to do through proper channels of government,” she scoffed. “There are no proper channels for what we’re trying to accomplish. There are no laws governing what happens to Muggleborn witches or wizards until they enter Hogwarts, let alone any kind of infrastructure to support their transition into wizarding society.”

“No, there really aren’t,” Draco agreed reluctantly. “The only laws that we did have were associated with the Muggleborn Registry and your lot made sure that those were all completely dismantled.”

“So there’s nothing stopping us from trying to help Muggleborn and half-blood witches and wizards,” Harry mused aloud. He sat down across from Hermione and Draco and held a mug of tea between his hands. He sipped at his tea thoughtfully. “This is… this is big, Hermione. It’s going to take a lot to pull off.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed. “Which is why I am asking the two of you for help.”

“I can see how Draco could help you,” Harry said slowly. He lifted a hand and gestured in Draco’s direction. “He knows how everything works and he’s got the name and the money, but how can I help you do anything?”

“You are right that Draco’s got the name,” Hermione replied. She grimaced and shrugged. “So have I, for that matter, but I don’t want ‘Malfoy’ plastered all over this project. I don’t even want to rely on the name of ‘Black’ even though Great-grandfather Marius and Grandmère have both offered.”

“Why not?” Harry asked with a frown.

“Harry, darling,” Hermione sighed at him with a fond smile.

“You don’t want to give the Malfoy family credit,” Draco guessed.

“I don’t want it to appear to be an act of _noblesse oblige_ on the part of pureblood families. It will only perpetuate the system that we’re trying to dismantle,” Hermione amended and quirked an eyebrow at her brother. She turned to Harry. “That’s why I’d like to use _your_ family’s name, if you’ll allow it.”

“Potter? His name is just as well known as ours, if not more so, and that was _before_ Voldemort,” Draco scoffed incredulously.

“Not Potter,” Hermione countered with a roll of her eyes. She looked at Harry and bit her lip. “What about the ‘Lily Evans School for the Gifted’?”

Harry blinked at her. “You want to name it after my mum?”

“I want to name it after an incredible Muggleborn witch who fought valiantly in the first Wizarding War,” Hermione said gently. “I think it’s important that the contributions of our Muggleborn witches and wizards are remembered.”

“Hermione,” Harry breathed out her name.

“Is that okay?” Hermione pressed cautiously. “If you’d rather that I not, then I’m sure I could think of something—”

Whatever compromise Hermione might have offered was cut off when Harry wrapped an arm around her neck and pulled her against his chest.

“That sounds good,” Harry muttered into her shoulder. “I—the Lily Evans School for the Gifted—” He gave a watery chuckle. “Yeah, okay.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Draco asked worriedly. “Calling it a school for the gifted? The Statute of Secrecy…” he trailed off into silence.

She cleared her throat and glanced at Draco. “Gifted is a term that Muggles use to describe particularly clever children. Among Muggles it would have no connection to magic, witches, or wizards. It would not seem odd to the parents of Muggleborn witches and wizards, and it’s something they could actually tell other parents about.”

Harry snorted and shook his head. “It sure beats St. Brutus’.” Hermione’s nose wrinkled in confusion and Harry frowned at her. “Where did your parents tell people you were going?”

“A boarding school in France,” Hermione replied drily.

“Wait.” Harry sat up straight and stared at Hermione. “What if you expanded to squib children? I mean, what if you created a presence for this school in the Muggle world.”

“We wouldn’t be able to accept regular Muggle students,” Hermione protested. She paused and bit her lip thoughtfully. “Well, maybe the siblings of Muggleborn students… like your Aunt Petunia. Do you think it would have helped?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied honestly. “It’s possible, I suppose?”

“If you opened a school and only accepted a very small number of students, it would create a sense of exclusivity that might help the squib children and the siblings of the Muggleborn as they made their way in the Muggle world,” Draco pointed out.

“It could,” Hermione agreed. “I suppose we could organize a magical side and a Muggle side with support and counseling for both sides. We could explain career tracks and find a way to arrange for internships.”

“Let’s pull the property deeds,” Draco sighed. “We can look through them and find you something useful, but… Hermione. You’re going to need help.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed. A sharp smile showing far too many teeth spread over her face. “That’s why I have you, brother dear.”


End file.
